



































































































































































































































































































































































V r 


o 
o 

► ** * » * ' «A N <, t * ^ . 

°0 4* -v W C°V 

*by* .4fp«; ^o* ; 

v oy, '«feo 30^ t 

~q K v^^.* <x.y cv 

3 ‘oso^ ^ . U/ J 4 . **n • , 

I •_ - £iUk \ *■%■<$* •-- 

z 
o 


■? »r V-C :«i ' 

% *W^Z <&% * WwK " V 

-.V" ‘‘o-f 0 *•«■.. v* "‘yv 
fe. % - V„<* c =-:<aa.'-. V *- 1 fi 



* 


./^V ,w t ,v^ v ^V 

^ V :•• ..-.r* 

o° V'wS’V °c **r;T^o° 

• s % v f * % v N V“°'„\ *g>* 

Sap ; ° z •<&* - 

;'<r.V ^ \ *<;-, . tl , V'° 

°4l|k* *ov^ r .f:,. 

X rN ^ O* <K V* 

^, * v».n •/,.. 

* % jP \> <-, V J- , 

*■* -* * ; \ ^ 


B»®P 









9. 

A 

.1 

>>«. A 
A 

>><'. A 
.§*. A 
$A. A 
A 

Mj. 

&& > 


I 


$$ ft 
M 
M 
M 
Ml 

M 
M 
M 
M 


: •> 


M 


JMU 
Ml 


M 

M 

Ml 


• > « 




M 

M 

M 

jMi 

M 

M 

M 

M 

Ml 






y. ¥ m 

tfc * ¥ m 
*4 ¥ M 
M 
&A ¥ M 
*4 ¥ M 
vU. ¥ M 
*4 ¥ M 
44 ¥ M 
44 ¥ .44 

44 ¥ M 
44 ¥ .44 

\V/ ¥ iV/ 


$9 

$9 

$9 

.49 

.44 

.44 

.44 

.44 

44 

44 

44 

* ^ a* 


£9 

44 












A HERO OF OUR TIME 



This new series consists of pop¬ 
ular-priced editions of books wor¬ 
thy of being reissued. Each volume 
is bound in cloth of extra quality 
stamped with a design by Claude 
Bragdon, with colored end papers 
by the same distinguished artist. 
The price is $1.25 net each. One 
book will appear every month, 
numbered for convenience in or¬ 
dering. 


A complete list to date of the 
Borzoi Pocket Books may be 
found at the back of this volume. 








•3 

\ ^ 


COPYRIGHT, 1924, BY ALFRED A. KNOPF, INC. 


Published, 1916 

Pocket Bo ok Edition, published J une, 1924 



Set up, electrotyped and printed by 
The Vail-Ballou Press, Inc., Binghamton, N. Y. 
Paper furnished by Henry Lindenmeyr & Sons, New York. 
Bound by II. Wolff Estate, New York. 


MANUFAOTUEBD IN THE UNITED STATES 
OP AMERICA 


JUN 20 ’24 r 

©ClA79 3049 J 


CONTENTS 


Book One. Bela ii 

Book Two. Maksim Maksimych 75 

Foreword to Extracts from Pechorin’s Diary 93 

Book Three. Taman 97 

Book Four. The Fatalist 119 

Book Five. Princess Mary 137 

Appendix. The Author’s Preface to the Second 
Edition 263 













A HERO OF OUR TIME 














k\ 


















BOOK ONE 


BELA 




Chapter I 

I was travelling post from Tiflis. 

All the luggage I had in my cart consisted of one 
small portmanteau half filled with travelling-notes 
on Georgia; of these the greater part has been 
lost, fortunately for you; but the portmanteau it¬ 
self and the rest of its contents have remained in¬ 
tact, fortunately for me. 

As I entered the Koishaur Valley the sun was 
disappearing behind the snow-clad ridge of the 
mountains. . In order to accomplish the ascent of 
Mount Koishaur by nightfall, my driver, an Os¬ 
sete, urged on the horses indefatigably, singing 
zealously the while at the top of his voice. 

What a glorious place that valley is! On every 
hand are inaccessible mountains, steep, yellow slopes 
scored by water-channels and reddish rocks draped 
with green ivy and crowned with clusters of plane- 
trees. Yonder, at an immense height, is the golden 
fringe of the snow. Down below rolls the River 
Aragva, which, after bursting noisily forth from the 
dark and misty depths of the gorge, with an un¬ 
named stream clasped in its embrace, stretches out 
like a thread of silver, its waters glistening like a 
snake with flashing scales. 

Arrived at the foot of Mount Koishaur, we 
stopped at a dukhan . 1 About a score of Georgians 
and mountaineers were gathered there in a noisy 

1 A retail shop and tavern combined. 

ii 


12 A HERO OF OUR TIME 

crowd, and, close by, a caravan of camels had 
halted for the night. I was obliged to hire oxen 
to drag my cart up that accursed mountain, as it 
was now autumn and the roads were slippery with 
ice. Besides, the mountain is about two versts 1 
in length. 

There was no help for it, so I hired six oxen and 
a few Ossetes. One of the latter shouldered my 
portmanteau, and the rest, shouting almost with 
one voice, proceeded to help the oxen. 

Following mine there came another cart, which 
I was surprised to see four oxen pulling with the 
greatest ease, notwithstanding that it was loaded 
to the top. Behind it walked the owner, smoking 
a little, silver-mounted Kabardian pipe. He was 
wearing a shaggy Circassian cap and an officer’s 
overcoat without epaulettes, and he seemed to be 
about fifty years of age. The swarthiness of his 
complexion showed that his face had long been ac¬ 
quainted with Transcaucasian suns, and the prema¬ 
ture greyness of his moustache was out of keeping 
with his firm gait and robust appearance. I went 
up to him and saluted. He silently returned my 
greeting and emitted an immense cloud of smoke. 

“We are fellow-travellers, it appears.” 

Again he bowed silently. 

“I suppose you are going to Stavropol?” 

“Yes, sir, exactly—with Government things.” 

“Can you tell me how it is that that heavily- 
laden cart of yours is being drawn without any 
difficulty by four oxen, whilst six cattle are scarcely 
able to move mine, empty though it is, and with 
all those Ossetes helping?” 

He smiled slyly and threw me a meaning glance. 

1 A verst is a measure of length, about 3500 English feet. 


bela. 13 

You have not been in the Caucasus long, I 
should say? 

“About a year,” I answered. 

He smiled a second time. 

“Well?” 

“Just so, sir,” he answered. “They’re terrible 
beasts, these Asiatics! You think that all that 
shouting means that they are helping the oxen? 
Why, the devil alone can make out what it is 
they do shout. The oxen understand, though; and 
if you were to yoke as many as twenty they still 
wouldn’t budge so long as the Ossetes shouted in 
that way of theirs. . . . Awful scoundrels! But 
what can you make of them? They love extorting 
money from people who happen to be travelling 
through here. The rogues have been spoiled! 
You wait and see: they will get a tip out of you 
as well as their hire. I know them of old, they 
can’t get round me!” 

“You have been serving here a long time?” 

“Yes, I was here under Aleksei Petrovich,” 1 he 
answered, assuming an air of dignity. “I was a 
sub-lieutenant when he came to the Line; and I was 
promoted twice, during his command, on account of 
actions against the mountaineers.” 

“And now—?” 

“Now I’m in the third battalion of the Line. 
And you yourself?” 

I told him. 

With this the^ conversation ended, and we con¬ 
tinued to walk in silence, side by side. On the 
summit of the mountain we found snow. The sun 

1 Ermolov, i. e. General Ermolov. Russians have three names— 
Christian name, patronymic and surname. They are addressed 
by the first two only. The surname of Maksim Maksimych (col¬ 
loquial for Maksimovich) is not mentioned. 



i 4 A HERO OF OUR TIME 

set, and—as usually is the case in the south—night 
followed upon the day without any interval of twi¬ 
light. Thanks, however, to the sheen of the snow, 
we were able easily to distinguish the road, which 
still went up the mountain-side, though not so 
steeply as before. I ordered the Ossetes to put my 
portmanteau into the cart, and to replace the oxen 
by horses. Then for the last time I gazed down 
upon the valley; but the thick mist which had 
gushed in billows from the gorges veiled it com¬ 
pletely, and not a single sound now floated up to 
our ears from below. The Ossetes surrounded me 
clamorously and demanded tips; but the staff- 
captain shouted so menacingly at them that they 
dispersed in a moment. 

“What a people they are!” he said. “They 
don’t even know the Russian for ‘bread,’ but they 
have mastered the phrase ‘Officer, give us a tip!’ 
In my opinion, the very Tartars are better, they 
are no drunkards, anyhow.” . . . 

We were now within a verst or so of the Sta¬ 
tion. Around us all was still, so still, indeed, that 
it was possible to follow the flight of a gnat by 
the buzzing of its wings. On our left loomed the 
gorge, deep and black. Behind it and in front of 
us rose the dark-blue summits of the mountains, 
all trenched with furrows and covered with layers 
of snow, and standing out against the pale horizon, 
which still retained the last reflections of the eve¬ 
ning glow. The stars twinkled out in the dark sky, 
and in some strange way it seemed to me that they 
were much higher than in our own north country. 
On both sides of the road bare, black rocks jutted 
out; here and there shrubs peeped forth from un¬ 
der the snow; but not a single withered leaf stirred, 


BELA i 5 

and amid that dead sleep of nature it was cheering 
to hear the snorting of the three tired post-horses 
and the irregular tinkling of the Russian bell . 1 

“We will have glorious weather tomorrow,” I 
said. 

The staff-captain answered not a word, but 
pointed with his finger to a lofty mountain which 
rose directly opposite us. 

“What is it?” I asked. 

“Mount Gut.” 

“Well, what then?”. 

“Don’t you see how it is smoking?” 

True enough, smoke was rising from Mount 
Gut. Over its sides gentle cloud-currents were 
creeping, and on the summit rested one cloud of 
such dense blackness that it appeared like a blot 
upon the dark sky. 

By this time we were able to make out the Post 
Station and the roofs of the huts surrounding it; 
the welcoming lights were twinkling before us, when 
suddenly a damp and chilly wind arose, the gorge 
rumbled, and a drizzling rain fell. I had scarcely 
time to throw my felt cloak round me when down 
came the snow. I looked at the staff-captain with 
profound respect. 

“We shall have to pass the night here,” he said, 
vexation in his tone. “There’s no crossing the 
mountains in such a blizzard.—I say, have there 
been any avalanches on Mount Krestov?” he in¬ 
quired of the driver. 

“No, sir,” the Ossete answered; “but there are 
a great many threatening to fall—a great many.” 

Owing to the lack of a travellers’ room in the 

iThe bell on the dugd, a wooden arch joining the shafts of 
a Russian conveyance over the horse’s neck. 


16 A HERO OF OUR TIME 

Station, we were assigned a night’s lodging in a 
smoky hut. I invited my fellow-traveller to drink 
a tumbler of tea with me, as I had. brought my 
cast-iron teapot—my only solace during my trav¬ 
els in the Caucasus. 

One side of the hut was stuck against the cliff, 
and three wet and slippery steps led up to the 
door. I groped my way in and stumbled up 
against a cow (with these people the cow-house 
supplies the place of a servant’s room). I did not 
know which way to turn—sheep were bleating on 
the one hand and a dog growling on the other. 
Fortunately, however, I perceived on one side a 
faint glimmer of light, and by its aid I was able to 
find another opening by way of a door. And here 
a by no means uninteresting picture was revealed. 
The wide hut, the roof of which rested on two 
smoke-grimed pillars, was full of people. In the 
centre of the floor a small fire was crackling, and 
the smoke, driven back by the wind from an open¬ 
ing in the roof, was spreading around in so thick a 
shroud that for a long time I was unable to see 
about me. Seated by the fire were two old women, 
a number of children and a lank Georgian—all of 
them in tatters. There was no help for it! We 
took refuge by the fire and lighted our pipes; and 
soon the teapot was singing invitingly. 

“Wretched people, these 1 ” I said to the staff- 
captain, indicating our dirty hosts, who were si¬ 
lently gazing at us in a kind of torpor. 

“And an utterly stupid people too!” he replied. 
“Would you believe it, they are absolutely ignorant 
and incapable of the slightest civilization I Why 
even our Kabardians or Chechenes, robbers and 
ragamuffins though they be, are regular dare-devils 


BELA 17 

for all that. Whereas these others have no liking 
for arms, and you’ll never see a decent dagger on 
one of them! Ossetes all over!” 

“You have been a long time in the Chechenes’ 
country?” 

“Yes, I was quartered there for about ten years 
along with my company in a fortress, near Kam- 
ennyi Brod. 1 Do you know the place?” 

“I have heard the name.” 

“I can tell you, my boy, we had quite enough of 
those dare-devil Chechenes. At the present time, 
thank goodness, things are quieter; but in the old 
days you had only to put a hundred paces between 
you and the rampart and wherever you went you 
would be sure to find a shaggy devil lurking in wait 
for you. You had just to let your thoughts wander 
and at any moment a lasso would be round your 
neck or a bullet in the back of your head! Brave 
fellows, though!” . . . 

“You used to have many an adventure, I dare 
say?” I said, spurred by curiosity. 

“Of course! Many a one.” . . . 

Hereupon he began to tug at his left moustache, 
let his head sink on to his breast, and became lost 
in thought. I had a very great mind to extract 
some little anecdote out of him—a desire natural 
to all who travel and make notes. 

Meanwhile, tea was ready. I took two travelling- 
tumblers out of my portmanteau, and, filling one 
of them, set it before the staff-captain. He sipped 
his tea and said, as if speaking to himself, “Yes, 
many a one!” This exclamation gave me great 
hopes. Your old Caucasian officer loves, I know, 
to t?lk and yarn a bit; he so rarely succeeds 

1 Rocky Ford. 


18 A HERO OF OUR TIME 

in getting a chance to do so. It may be his fate to 
be quartered five years or so with his company in 
some out-of-the-way place, and during the whole of 
that time he will not hear “good morning” from a 
soul (because the sergeant says “good health”)* 
And, indeed, he would have good cause to wax lo¬ 
quacious—with a wild and interesting people all 
around him, danger to be faced every day, and 
many a marvellous incident happening. It is in 
circumstances like this that we involuntarily com¬ 
plain that so few of our countrymen take notes. 

“Would you care to put some rum in your tea?” 
I said to my companion. “I have some white rum 
with me—from Tiflis; and the weather is cold 
now.” 

“No, thank you, sir; I don’t drink.” 

“Really?” 

“Just so. I have sworn off drinking. Once, 
you know, when I was a sub-lieutenant, some of us 
had a drop too much. That very night there was 
an alarm, and out we went to the front, half seas 
over! We did catch it, I can tell you, when 
Aleksei Petrovich came to hear about us! Heaven 
save us, what a rage he was in! He was within an 
ace of having us court-martialled. That’s just how 
things happen! You might easily spend a whole 
year without seeing a soul; but just go and have a 
drop and you’re a lost man!” 

On hearing this I almost lost hope. 

“Take the Circassians, now,” he continued; 
“once let them drink their fill of huza 1 at a wedding 
or a funeral, and out will come their knives. On 
one occasion I had some difficulty in getting away 

1 A kind of beer made from millet. 


BELA 19 

with a whole skin, and yet it was at the house of a 
‘friendly’ 1 prince, where I was a guest, that the 
affair happened.” 

“How was that?” I asked. 

“Here, I’ll tell you.” . . . 

He filled his pipe, drew in the smoke, and began 
his story. 

1 i. e. acknowledging Russian supremacy. 


Chapter II 


“You see, sir,’’ said the staff-captain,. “I was 
quartered, at the time, with a company in a for¬ 
tress beyond the Terek—getting on for five years 
ago now. One autumn day, a transport arrived 
with provisions, in charge of an officer, a young 
man of about twenty-five. He reported himself to 
me in full uniform, and announced that he had been 
ordered to remain in the fortress with me. He 
was so very elegant, his complexion so nice and 
white, his uniform so brand new, that I immediately 
guessed that he had not been long with our army in 
the Caucasus. 

“ ‘I suppose you have been transferred from 
Russia?’ I asked. 

“ ‘Exactly, captain,’ he answered. 

“I took him by the hand and said: 

“‘I’m delighted to see you—delighted! It 
will be a bit dull for you . . . but there, we will 
live together like a couple of friends. But, please, 
call me simply “Maksim Maksimych”; and, tell me, 
what is this full uniform for? Just wear your 
forage-cap whenever you come to me!’ 

“Quarters were assigned to him and he settled 
down in the fortress.” 

“What was his name?” I asked Maksim Mak¬ 
simych. 

“His name was Grigori Aleksandrovich Pe - 


21 


BELA 

chorin. He was a splendid fellow, I can assure 
you, but a little peculiar. Why, to give you an in¬ 
stance, one time he would stay out hunting the 
whole day, in the rain and cold; the others would 
all be frozen through and tired out, but he wouldn’t 
mind either cold or fatigue. Then, another time, 
he would be sitting in his own room, and, if there 
was a breath of wind, he would declare that he had 
caught cold; if the shutters rattled against the win¬ 
dow he would start and turn pale: yet I myself have 
seen him attack a boar single-handed. Often 
enough you couldn’t drag a word out of him for 
hours together; but then, on the other hand, some¬ 
times, when he started telling stories, you would 
split your sides with laughing. Yes, sir, a very 
eccentric man; and he must have been wealthy too. 
What a lot of expensive trinkets he had!” . . . 

“Did he stay there long with you?” I went on to 
ask. 

“Yes, about a year. And, for that very reason, 
it was a memorable year to me. He gave me a 
great deal of trouble—but there, let bygones be by¬ 
gones! . . . You see, it is true enough, there are 
people like that, fated from birth to have all sorts 
of strange things happening to them J” 

“Strange?” I exclaimed, with an air of curiosity, 
as I poured out some tea. 


Chapter III 

“Well, then, I’ll tell you,” said Maksim Mak- 
simych. “About six versts from the fortress there 
lived a certain ‘friendly’ prince. His son, a brat 
of about fifteen, was accustomed to ride over to 
visit us. Not a day passed but he would come, 
now for one thing, now for another. And, indeed, 
Grigori Aleksandrovich and I spoiled him. What 
a dare-devil the boy was! Up to anything, picking 
up a cap at full gallop, or bringing things down 
with his gun! He had one bad quality; he was ter¬ 
ribly greedy for money. Once, for the fun of the 
thing, Grigori Aleksandrovich promised to give him 
a ducat if he would steal the best he-goat from his 
father’s herd for him; and, what do you think? 
The very next night he came lugging it in by the 
horns! At times we used to take it into our heads 
to tease him, and then his eyes would become 
bloodshot and his hand would fly to his dagger im¬ 
mediately. 

“ ‘You’ll be losing your life if you are not care¬ 
ful, Azamat,’ I would say to him. ‘That hot head 
of yours will get you into trouble.’ 

“On one occasion, the old prince himself came 
to invite us to the wedding of his eldest daughter; 
and, as we were guest-friends with him, it was im¬ 
possible to decline, Tartar though he was. We set 
off. In the village we were met by a number of 
22 


BELA 23 

dogs, all barking loudly. The women, when they 
saw us corrfing, hid themselves, but those whose 
faces we were able to get a view of were far from 
being beauties. 

u *1 had a much better opinion of the Circas¬ 
sian women,’ remarked Grigori Aleksandrovich. 

“‘Wait a bit!’ I answered, with a smile; I 
had my own views on the subject. 

“A number of people had already gathered at 
the prince’s hut. It is the custom of the Asiatics, 
you know, to invite all and sundry to a wedding. 
We were received with every mark of honour and 
conducted to the guest-chamber. All the same, I 
did not forget quietly to mark where our horses 
were put, in case anything unforeseen should hap¬ 
pen.” 

“How are weddings celebrated amongst them?” 
I asked the staff-captain. 

“Oh, in the usual way. First of all, the Mullah 
reads them something out of the Koran; then gifts 
are bestowed upon the young couple and all their 
relations; the next thing is eating and drinking of 
buzdy then the dance on horseback; and there is 
always some ragamuffin bedaubed with grease, be¬ 
striding a wretched, lame jade, and grimacing, buf¬ 
fooning and making the worshipful company laugh. 
Finally, when darkness falls, they proceed to hold 
what we should call a ball in the guest-chamber. A 
poor, old greybeard strums on a three-stringed 
instrument—I forget what they call it, but anyhow, 
it is something in the nature of our balalaika . 1 
The girls and young children set themselves in 
two ranks, one opposite the other, and clap their 
hands and sing. Then a girl and a man come out 

1 A kind of two-stringed or three-stringed guitar. 


24 A HERO OF OUR TIME 

into the centre and i>egin to chant verses to each 
other—whatever comes into their heads—and the 
rest join in as a chorus. Pechorin and I sat in the 
place of honour. All at once up came our host’s 
youngest daughter, a girl about sixteen, and 
chanted to Pechorin—how shall I put it?—some¬ 
thing in the nature of a compliment.” . . . 

“What was it she sang—do you remember?” 

“It went like this, I fancy: Handsome, they 
say, are our younq horsemen, and the tunics they 
wear are garnished with silver; hut handsomer still 
is the young Russian officer, and the lace on his 
tunic is wrought of gold. Like a poplar amongst 
them he stands, but in gardens of ours such trees 
will grow not nor bloom/* 

“Pechorin rose, bowed to her, put his hand to 
his forehead and heart, and asked me to answer her. 
I know their language well, and I translated his 
reply. 

“When she had left us I whispered to Grigori 
Aleksandrovich: 

“ ‘Well, now, what do you think of her?’ 

“‘Charming!’ he replied. ‘What is her name?’ 

“ ‘Her name is Bela,’ I answered. 

“And a beautiful girl she was indeed; her figure 
was tall and slender, her eyes black as those of a 
mountain chamois, and they fairly looked into your 
soul. Pechorin, deep in thought, kept his gaze 
fixed upon her, and she, for her part, stole glances 
at him often enough from under her lashes. Pech¬ 
orin, however, was not the only one who was ad¬ 
miring the pretty princess; another pair of eyes, 
fixed and fiery, were gazing at her from the corner 
of the room. I took a good look at their owner, 
and recognized my old acquaintance Kazbich, who, 


BELA 25 

you must know, was neither exactly ‘friendly’ nor 
yet the other thing. He was an object of much sus¬ 
picion, although he had never actually been caught 
at any knavery. He used to bring rams to our 
fortress and sell them cheaply; only he never would 
haggle; whatever he demanded at first you had to 
give. He would have his throat cut rather than 
come down in price. He had the reputation of 
being fond of roaming on the far side of the Ku¬ 
ban with the Abreks; and, to tell the truth, he had 
a regular thief’s visage. A little, wizened, broad- 
shouldered fellow he was—but smart, I can tell 
you, smart as the very devil! His tunic was al¬ 
ways worn out and patched, but his weapons were 
mounted in silver. His horse was renowned 
throughout Kabardia—and, indeed, a better one it 
would be impossible to imagine! Not without 
good reason did all the other horsemen envy Kaz¬ 
bich, and on more than one occasion they had at¬ 
tempted to steal the horse, but they had never suc¬ 
ceeded. I seem to see the animal before me now 
—black as coal, with legs like bow-strings and eyes 
as fine as Bela’s! How strong he was too! He 
would gallop as much as fifty versts at a stretch! 
And he was well trained besides—he would trot be¬ 
hind his master like a dog, and actually knew his 
voice! Kazbich never used to tether him either 
—just the very horse for a robber! . . . 

“On that evening Kazbich was more sullen than 
ever, and I noticed that he was wearing a coat of 
mail under his tunic. ‘He hasn’t got that coat of 
mail on for nothing,’ I thought. ‘He has some 
plot in his head, I’ll be bound!’ 

“It grew oppressively hot in the hut, and I went 
out into the air to cool myself. Night had fallen 


26 A HERO OF OUR TIME 

upon the mountains, and a mist was beginning to 
creep along the gorges. 

“It occurred to me to pop in under the shed 
where our horses were standing, to see whether 
they had their fodder; and, besides, it is never any 
harm to take precautions. My horse was a splen¬ 
did one too, and more than one Kabardian had al¬ 
ready cast fond glances at it, repeating at the same 
time: ‘Yakshi tkhe chok yakshi.’ 1 

“I stole along the fence. Suddenly I heard 
voices, one of which I immediately recognized. It 
was that of the young pickle, Azamat, our host’s 
son. The other person spoke less and in a quieter 
tone. 

“What are they discussing there?’ I won¬ 
dered. ‘Surely it can’t be my horse!’ I squatted 
down beside the fence and proceeded to play the 
eavesdropper, trying not to let slip a single word. 
At times the noise of songs and the buzz of voices, 
escaping from the hut, drowned the conversation 
which I was finding interesting. 

“ ‘That’s a splendid horse of yours,’ Amamat was 
saying. ‘If I were master of a horse of my own 
and had a stud of three hundred mares, I would 
give half of it for your galloper, Kazbich!’ 

“ ‘Aha! Kazbich!’ I said to myself, and I 
called to mind the coat of mail. 

“ ‘Yes,’ replied Kazbich, after an interval of si¬ 
lence. ‘There is not such another to be found in 
all Kabardia. Once—it was on the other side of 
the Terek—I had ridden with the Abreks to seize 
the Russian herds. We had no luck, so we scat¬ 
tered in different directions. Four Cossacks 
dashed after me. I could actually hear the cries 

1 “Good—very good,” 


BELA 27 

of the giaours behind me, and in front of me there 
was a dense forest. I crouched down in the sad¬ 
dle, committed myself to Allah, and, for the first 
time in my life, insulted my horse with a blow of 
the whip. Like a bird, he plunged among the 
branches; the sharp thorns tore my clothing, the 
dead boughs of the cork-elms struck against my 
face! My horse leaped over tree-trunks and burst 
his way through bushes with his chest! It would 
have been better for me to have abandoned him at 
the outskirts of the forest and concealed myself in 
it afoot, but it was a pity to part with him—and 
the Prophet rewarded me. A few bullets whistled 
over my head. I could now hear the Cossacks, 
who had dismounted, running upon my tracks. 
Suddenly a deep gully opened before me. My gal¬ 
loper took thought—and leaped. His hind hoofs 
slipped back off the opposite bank, and he remained 
hanging by his fore-feet. I dropped the bridle and 
threw myself into the hollow, thereby saving my 
horse, which jumped out. The Cossacks saw the 
whole scene, only not one of them got down to 
search for me, thinking probably that I had mor¬ 
tally injured myself; and I heard them rushing to 
catch my horse. My heart bled within me. I 
crept along the hollow through the thick grass— 
then I looked around: it was the end of the for¬ 
est. A few Cossacks were riding out from it on 
to the clearing, and there was my Karagyoz 1 gal¬ 
loping straight towards them. With a shout they 
all dashed forward. For a long, long time they pur¬ 
sued him, and one of them, in particular, was once or 
twice almost successful in throwing a lasso over his 
neck. I trembled, dropped my eyes, and began to 

1 Turkish for “Black-eye.” 


28 A HERO OF OUR TIME 

pray. After a few moments I looked up again, 
and there was my Karagyoz flying along, his tail 
waving—free as the wind; and the giaours, on their 
jaded horses, were trailing along far behind, one 
after another, across the steppe. Wallah! It 
is true—really true! Till late at night I lay in the 
hollow. Suddenly—what do you think, Azamat? 
I heard in the darkness a horse trotting along the 
bank of the hollow, snorting, neighing, and beat¬ 
ing the ground with his hoofs. I recognized my 
Karagyoz’s voice; ’twas he, my comrade! . . . 
Since that time we have never been parted!’ 

“And I could hear him patting his galloper’s 
sleek neck with his hand, as he called him vari¬ 
ous fond names. 

“ ‘If I had a stud of a thousand mares,’ said 
Azamat, ‘I would give it all for your Karagyoz!’ 

“ ( Yok! 1 I would not take it!’ said Kazbich in¬ 
differently. 

“ ‘Listen, Kazbich,’ said Azamat, trying to in¬ 
gratiate himself with him. ‘You are a kind- 
hearted man, you are a brave horseman, but my 
father is afraid of the Russians and will not allow 
me to go on the mountains. Give me your horse, 
and I will do anything you wish. I will steal my 
father’s best rifle for you, or his sabre—just as you 
like—and his sabre is a genuine Gurda; 2 you 
have only to lay the edge against your hand, and 
it will cut you; a coat of mail like yours is nothing 
against it.’ 

“Kazbich remained silent. 

“ ‘The first time I saw your horse,’ continued 
Azamat, ‘when he was wheeling and leaping under 

1 “No!” > 

2 A particular kind of ancient and valued sabre. 


BELA 29 

you, his nostrils distended, and the flints flying in 
showers from under his hoofs, something I could 
not understand took place within my soul; and since 
that time I have been weary of everything. I 
have looked with disdain on my father’s best gal¬ 
lopers; I have been ashamed to be seen on them, 
and yearning has taken possession of me. In my 
anguish I have spent whole days on the cliffs, and, 
every minute, my thoughts have kept turning to 
your black galloper with his graceful gait and his 
sleek back, straight as an arrow. With his keen, 
bright eyes he has looked into mine as if about 
to speak! ... I shall die, Kazbich, if you will not 
sell him to me !’ said Azamat, with trembling 
voice. 

“I could hear him burst out weeping, and I must 
tell you that Azamat was a very stubborn lad, and 
that not for anything could tears be wrung from 
him, even when he was a little younger. 

“In answer to his tears, I could hear something 
like a laugh. 

“ ‘Listen,’ said Azamat in a firm voice. ‘You 
see, I am making up my mind for anything. If 
you like, I will steal my sister for you! How she 
dances! How she sings! And the way she em¬ 
broiders with gold—marvellous! Not even a 
Turkish Padishah 1 has had a wife like her! . . . 
Shall I? Wait for me tomorrow night, yonder, in 
the gorge where the torrent flows; I will go by 
with her to the neighbouring village—and she is 
yours. Surely Bela is worth your galloper!’ 

“Kazbich remained silent for a long, long time. 
At length, instead of answering, he struck up in an 
undertone the ancient song: 

1 King—a title of the Sultan of Turkey. 


3 o A HERO OF OUR TIME 

"Many a beauty among us dwells 
From whose eyes ' dark depths the starlight wells , 

'Tis an envied lot and sweet , to hold 
Their love; but brighter is freedom bold. 

Four wives are yours if you pay the gold; 

But a mettlesome steed is of price untold; 

The whirlwind itself on the steppe is less fleet; 

He knows no treachery—no deceit.” 1 

“In vain Azamat entreated him to consent. He 
wept, coaxed, and swore to him. Finally, Kazbich 
interrupted him impatiently: 

“ ‘Begone, you crazy brat! How should you 
think to ride on my horse? In three steps you 
would be thrown and your neck broken on the stones. 

“ ‘I?’ cried Azamat in a fury, and the blade of 
the child’s dagger rang agaipst the coat of mail. 
A powerful arm thrust him away, and he struck the 
wattle fence with such violence that it rocked. 

“‘Now we’ll see some fun!’ I thought to my¬ 
self. 

“I rushed into the stable, bridled our horses and 
led them out into the back courtyard. In a couple 
of minutes there was a terrible uproar in the hut. 
What had happened was this: Azamat had rushed 
in, with his tunic torn, saying that Kazbich was go¬ 
ing to murder him. All sprang out, seized their 
guns, and the fun began! Noise—shouts—shots! 
But by this time Kazbich was in the saddle, and, 
wheeling among the crowd along the street, de¬ 
fended himself like a madman, brandishing his 
sabre. 

“ ‘It is a bad thing to interfere in other people’s 

1 1 beg my readers’ pardon for having versified Kazbich’s song, 
which, of course, as I heard it, was in prose; but habit is second 
nature. ( Author’s note.) 


BELA 31 

quarrels,’ I said to Grigori Aleksandrovich, taking 
him by the arm. ‘Wouldn’t it be better for us to 
clear off without loss of time?’ 

“ ‘Wait, though, and see how it will end!’ 

“ ‘Oh, as to that, it will be sure enough to end 
badly; it is always so with these Asiatics. Once let 
them get drunk on buzd, and there’s certain to be 
bloodshed.’ 

“We mounted and galloped home.” 


Chapter IV 

“Tell me, what became of Kazbich?” I asked 
the staff-captain impatiently. 

“Why, what can happen to that sort of a fel¬ 
low?” he answered, finishing his tumbler of tea. 
“He slipped away, of course.” 

“And wasn’t he wounded?” I asked. 

“Goodness only knows! Those scoundrels take 
a lot of killing! In action, for instance, I’ve seen 
many a one, sir, stuck all over with bayonets like 
a sieve, and still brandishing his sabre.” 

After an interval of silence the staff-captain con¬ 
tinued, tapping the ground with his foot: 

“One thing I’ll never forgive myself for. On 
our arrival at the fortress the devil put it into my 
head to repeat to Grigori Aleksandrovich all that 
I had heard when I was eavesdropping behind the 
fence. He laughed—cunning fellow !—and thought 
out a little plan of his own.” 

“What was that? Tell me, please.” 

“Well, there’s no help for it now, I suppose. 
I’ve begun the story, and so I must continue. 

“In about four days’ time Azamat rode over to 
the fortress. As his usual custom was, he went 
to see Grigori Aleksandrovich, who always used 
to give him sweetmeats to eat. I was present. 
The conversation was on the subject of horses, and 
Pechorin began to sound the praises of Kazbich’s 
Karagyoz. What a mettlesome horse it was, and 
32 


BELA 33 

how handsome! A perfect chamois! In fact, 
judging by his account, there simply wasn’t an¬ 
other like it in the whole world! 

“The young Tartar’s beady eyes began to 
sparkle, but Pechorin didn’t seem to notice the fact. 
I started to talk about something else, but imme¬ 
diately, mark you, Pechorin caused the conversation 
to strike off on to Kazbich’s horse. Every time 
that Azamat came it was the same story. After 
about three weeks, I began to observe that Azamat 
was growing pale and wasted, just as people in nov¬ 
els do from love, sir. What wonder either! . . . 

“Well, you see, it was not until afterwards that 
I learned the whole trick—Grigori Aleksandrovich 
exasperated Azamat to such an extent with his teas¬ 
ing that the boy was ready even to drown himself. 
One day Pechorin suddenly broke out with: 

“ ‘I see, Azamat, that you have taken a desperate 
fancy to that horse of Kazbich’s, but you’ll no 
more see him than you will the back of your neck! 
Come, tell me, what would you give if somebody 
made you a present of him?’ 

“ ‘Anything he wanted,’ answered Azamat. 

“ ‘In that case I will get the horse for you, only 
on one condition. . . . Swear that you will fulfil 
it?’ 

“ ‘I swear. You swear too!’ 

“ ‘Very well! I swear that the horse shall be 
yours. But, in return, you must deliver your sis¬ 
ter Bela into my hands. Karagyoz shall be her 
bridegroom’s gift. I hope the transaction will be 
a profitable one for you.’ 

“Azamat remained silent. 

“‘Won’t you? Well, just as you like! I 
thought you were a man, but it seems you are still a 


34 A HERO OF OUR TIME 

child; it is early for you to be riding on horseback!’ 

“Azamat fired up. 

“ ‘But my father-’ he said. 

“ ‘Does he never go away, then?’ 

“ ‘True.’ 

“ ‘You agree?’ 

“ ‘I agree,’ whispered Azamat, pale as death. 
But when?’ 

“ ‘The first time Kazbich rides over here. He 
has promised to drive in half a score of rams; the 
rest is my affair. Look out, then, Azamat!’ 

“And so they settled the business—a bad busi¬ 
ness, to tell the truth! I said as much to Pechorin 
afterwards, but he only answered that a wild Cir¬ 
cassian girl ought to consider herself fortunate in 
having such a charming husband as himself—be¬ 
cause, according to their ideas, he really was her 
husband—and that Kazbich was a scoundrel, and 
ought to be punished. Judge for yourself, what 
could I say to that? ... At the time, however, 
I knew nothing of their conspiracy. Well, one day 
Kazbich rode up and asked whether we needed any 
rams and honey; and I ordered him to bring some 
the next day. 

“‘Azamat!’ said Grigori Aleksandrovich; ‘to¬ 
morrow Karagyoz will be in my hands; if Bela is 
not here tonight you will never see the horse. . . .’ 

“ ‘Very well,’ said Azamat, and galloped to the 
village. 

“In the evening Grigori Aleksandrovich armed 
himself and rode out of the fortress. How they 
settled the business I don’t know, but at night they 
both returned, and the sentry saw that across Aza¬ 
mat’s saddle a woman was lying, bound hand and 
foot and with her head wrapped in a veil.” 



35 


BELA 

‘‘And the horse?” I asked the staff-captain. 

“One minute! One minute! Early next morn¬ 
ing Kazbich rode over, driving in half a score of 
rams for sale. Tethering his horse by the fence, 
he came in to see me, and I regaled him with tea, 
for, robber though he was, he was none the less 
my guest-friend. 

“We began to chat about one thing and an¬ 
other. . . . Suddenly I saw Kazbich start, change 
countenance, and dart to the window; but unfor¬ 
tunately the window looked on to the back court¬ 
yard. 

“ ‘What is the matter with you?’ I asked. 

“ ‘My horse! . . . My horse!’ he cried, all of 
a tremble. 

“As a matter of fact I heard the clattering of 
hoofs. 

“ ‘It is probably some Cossack who has ridden 
up.’ 

“ ‘No! Urus — yaman i yaman!’ 1 he roared, 
and rushed headlong away like a wild panther. In 
two bounds he was in the courtyard; at the gate of 
the fortress the sentry barred the way with his 
gun; Kazbich jumped over the gun and dashed off 
at a run along the road. . . . Dust was whirling in 
the distance—Azamat was galloping away on the 
mettlesome Karagyoz. Kazbich, as he ran, tore 
his gun out of its cover and fired. For a moment 
he remained motionless, until he had assured him¬ 
self that he had missed. Then he uttered a shrill 
cry, knocked the gun against a rock, smashed it 
to splinters, fell to the ground, and burst out sob¬ 
bing like a child. . . . The people from the for¬ 
tress gathered round him, but he took no notice of 

^■“No! Russian—bad, bad!” 


36 A HERO OF OUR TIME 

any one. They stood there talking awhile and then 
went back. I ordered the money for the rams to 
be placed beside him. He didn’t touch it, but lay 
with his face to the ground like a dead man. 
Would you believe it? He remained lying like 
that throughout the rest of that day and the fob* 
lowing night! It was only on the next morning 
that he came to the fortress and proceeded to ask 
that the name of the thief should be told him. The 
sentry who had observed Azamat untying the horse 
and galloping away on him did not see any neces¬ 
sity for concealment. At the name of Azamat, 
Kazbich’s eyes flashed, and he set off to the village 
where Azamat’s father lived.” 

“And what about the father?” 

“Ah, that was where the trick came in! Kaz- 
bich could not find him; he had gone away some¬ 
where for five or six days; otherwise, how could 
Azamat have succeeded in carrying off Bela? 

“And, when the father returned, there was neither 
daughter nor son to be found. A wily rogue, 
Azamat! He understood, you see, that he would 
lose his life if he was caught. So, from that time, 
he was never seen again; probably he joined some 
gang of Abreks and laid down his turbulent life on 
the other side of the Terek or the Kuban. It 
would have served him right!” . . . 


Chapter V 

“I confess that, for my part, I had trouble 
enough over the business. So soon as ever I 
learned that the Circassian girl was with Grigori 
Aleksandrovich, I put on my epaulettes and sword 
and went to see him. 

“He was lying on the bed in the outer room, with 
one hand under his head and the other holding a 
pipe which had gone out. The door leading to the 
inner room was locked, and there was no key in the 
lock. I observed all that in a moment. ... I 
coughed and rapped my heels against the threshold, 
but he pretended not to hear. 

“‘Ensign!’ I said, as sternly as I could. ‘Do 
you not see that I have come to you?’ 

“‘Ah, good morning, Maksim Maksimych! 
Won’t you have a pipe?’ he answered, without 
rising. 

“ ‘Excuse me, I am not Maksim Maksimych. I 
am the staff-captain.’ 

“ ‘It’s all the same! Won’t you have some tea? 
If you only knew how I am being tortured with 
anxiety.’ 

“ ‘I know all,’ I answered, going up to the bed. 

“ ‘So much the better,’ he said. ‘I am not in a 
narrative mood.’ 

“ ‘Ensign, you have committed an offence for 
which I may have to answer as well as you.’ 

37 


38 A HERO OF OUR TIME 

“‘Oh, that’ll do. What’s the harm? You 
know, we’ve gone halves in everything.’ 

“ ‘What sort of a joke do you think you are 
playing? Your sword, please!’ . . . 

“ ‘Mitka, my sword!’ 

“Mitka brought the sword. My duty dis¬ 
charged, I sat down on the bed, facing Pechorin, 
and said: ‘Listen here, Grigori Aleksandrovich, 
you must admit that this is a bad business.’ 

“‘What is?’ 

“ ‘Why, that you have carried off Bela. . . . 
Ah, it is that beast Azamat! . . . Come, confess!’ 
I said. 

“ ‘But, supposing I am fond of her?’ . . . 

“Well, what could I say to that? ... I was 
nonplussed. After a short interval of silence, how¬ 
ever, I told him that if Bela’s father were to claim 
her he would have to give her up. 

“‘Not at all!’ 

“ ‘But he will get to know that she is here.’ 

“ ‘How?’ 

“Again I was nonplussed. 

“ ‘Listen, Maksim Maksimych,” said Pechorin, 
rising to his feet. ‘You’re a kind-hearted man, 
you know; but, if we give that savage back his 
daughter, he will cut her throat or sell her. The 
deed is done, and the only thing we can do now 
is not to go out of our way to spoil matters. 
Leave Bela with me and keep my sword!’ 

“ ‘Show her to me, though,’ I said. 

“ ‘She is behind that door. Only I wanted, my¬ 
self, to see her today and wasn’t able to. She sits 
in the corner, muffled in her veil, and neither speaks 
nor looks up—timid as a wild chamois! I have 
hired the wife of our dukhan-keeper: she knows 


BELA 39 

the Tartar language, and will look after Bela and 
accustom her to the idea that she belongs to me— 
for she shall belong to no one else!’ he added, bang¬ 
ing his fist on the table. 

“I assented to that too. . . . What could I do? 
There are some people with whom you absolutely 
have to agree.” 

“Well?” I asked Maksim Maksimych. “Did 
he really succeed in making her grow accustomed 
to him, or did she pine away in captivity from 
home-sickness?” 

“Good Gracious! how could she pine away from 
home-sickness? From the fortress she could see 
the very same hills as she could from the village— 
and these savages require nothing more. Besides, 
Grigori Aleksandrovich used to give her a present 
of some kind every day. At first she didn’t utter 
a word, but haughtily thrust away the gifts, which 
then fell to the lot of the dukhan-keeper’s wife and 
aroused her eloquence. Ah, presents! What 
won’t a woman do for a coloured rag! . . . But 
that is by the way. . . . For a long time Grigori 
Aleksandrovich persevered with her, and mean¬ 
while he studied the Tartar language and she be¬ 
gan to understand ours. Little by little she grew 
accustomed to looking at him, at first furtively, 
askance; but she still pined and crooned her songs 
in an undertone, so that even I would feel heavy at 
heart when I heard her from the next room. One 
scene I shall never forget: I was walking past, 
and I looked in at the window; Bela was sitting 
on the stove-couch, her head sunk on her breast, 
and Grigori Aleksandrovich was standing, facing 
her. 

“ ‘Listen, my Peri,’ he was saying. ‘Surely you 


4 o A HERO OF OUR TIME 

know that you will have to be mine sooner or later 
—why, then, do you but torture me? Is it that 
you are in love with some Chechene? If so, I will 
let you go home at once.’ 

“She gave a scarcely perceptible start and shook 
her head. 

“ ‘Or is it,’ he continued, ‘that I am utterly hate¬ 
ful to you?’ 

“She heaved a sigh. 

“ ‘Or that your faith prohibits you from giv¬ 
ing me a little of your love?’ 

“She turned pale and remained silent. 

“ ‘Believe me, Allah is one and the same for all 
races; and, if he permits me to love you, why, then, 
should he prohibit you from requiting me by re¬ 
turning my love?’ 

“She gazed fixedly into his face, as though struck 
by that new idea. Distrust and a desire to be con¬ 
vinced were expressed in her eyes. What eyes 
they were! They sparkled just like two glowing 
coals. 

“ ‘Listen, my dear, good Bela!’ continued Pech- 
orin. ‘You see how I love you. I am ready to 
give up everything to make you cheerful once more. 
I want you to be happy, and, if you are going to 
be sad again, I shall die. Tell me, you will be 
more cheerful?’ 

“She fell into thought, her black eyes still fixed 
upon him. Then she smiled graciously and nodded 
her head in token of acquiescence. 

“He took her by the hand and tried to induce 
her to kiss him. She defended herself feebly, and 
only repeated: ‘Please! Please! You mustn’t, 
you mustn’t!’ 


BELA 41 

“He went on to insist; she began to tremble and 
weep. 

“‘I am your captive,’ she said, ‘your slave; of 
course, you can compel me.’ 

“And then, again—tears. 

“Grigori Aleksandrovich struck his forehead 
with his list and sprang into the other room. I 
went in to see him, and found him walking mood¬ 
ily backwards and forwards with folded arms. 

“ ‘Well, old man?’ I said to him. 

“ ‘She is a devil—not a woman!’ he answered. 
‘But I give you my word of honour that she shall be 
mine!’ 

“I shook my head. 

“ ‘Will you bet with me?’ he said. ‘In a week’s 
time ?’ 

“ ‘Very well,’ I answered. 

“We shook hands on it and separated. 

“The next day he immediately dispatched an ex¬ 
press messenger to Kizlyar to purchase some things 
for him. The messenger brought back a quite in¬ 
numerable quantity of various Persian stuffs. 

“ ‘What think you, Maksim Maksimych?’ he 
said to me, showing the presents. ‘Will our Asi¬ 
atic beauty hold out against such a battery as this?’ 

“ ‘You don’t know the Circassian women,’ I an¬ 
swered. ‘They are not at all the same as the Geor¬ 
gian or the Transcaucasian Tartar women—not at 
all! They have their own principles, they are 
brought up differently.’ 

“Grigori Aleksandrovich smiled and began to 
whistle a march to himself.” 


Chapter VI 

“As things fell out, however,” continued Mak¬ 
sim Maksimych, “I was right, you see. The pres¬ 
ents produced only half an effect. She became 
more gracious, more trustful—but that was all. 
Pechorin accordingly determined upon a last expe¬ 
dient. One morning he ordered his horse to be sad¬ 
dled, dressed himself as a Circassian, armed him¬ 
self, and went into her room. 

“ ‘Bela,’ he said. ‘You know how I love you. 
I decided to carry you off, thinking that when you 
grew to know me you would give me your love. I 
was mistaken. Farewell! Remain absolute mis¬ 
tress of all I possess. Return to your father if 
you like—you are free. I have acted wrongfully 
towards you, and I must punish myself. Farewell! 
I am going. Whither?—How should I know? 
Perchance I shall not have long to court the bullet 
or the sabre-stroke. Then remember me and for¬ 
give.’ 

“He turned away, and stretched out his hand to 
her in farewell. She did not take his hand, but re¬ 
mained silent. But I, standing there behind the 
door, was able through a chink to observe her 
countenance, and I felt sorry for her—such a 
deathly pallor shrouded that charming little face! 
Hearing no answer, Pechorin took a few steps to¬ 
wards the door. He was trembling, and—shall I 
tell you?—I think that he was in a state to perform 
42 


BELA 43 

in very fact what he had been saying in jest! He 
was just that sort of man, Heaven knows! 

“He had scarcely touched the door, however, 
when Bela sprang to her feet, burst out sobbing, 
and threw herself on his neck! Would you believe 
it? I, standing there behind the door, fell to weep¬ 
ing too, that is to say, you know, not exactly weep¬ 
ing—but just—well, something foolish !” 

The staff-captain became silent. 

# “Yes, I confess,” he said after a while, tugging at 
his moustache, “I felt hurt that not one woman had 
ever loved me like that.” 

“Was their happiness lasting?” I asked. 

“Yes, she admitted that, from the day she had 
first cast eyes on Pechorin, she had often dreamed 
of him, and that no other man had ever produced 
such an impression upon her. Yes, they were 
happy!” 

“How tiresome!” I exclaimed, involuntarily. 
In point of fact, I had been expecting a tragic end¬ 
ing—when, lo! he must needs disappoint my hopes 
in such an unexpected manner! . . . 

“Is it possible, though,” I continued, “that her 
father did not guess that she was with you in the 
fortress?” 

“Well, you must know, he seems to have had his 
suspicions. After a few days, we learned that the 
old man had been murdered. This is how it hap¬ 
pened.” . . . 

My attention was aroused anew. 

“I must tell you that Kazbich imagined that the 
horse had been stolen by Azamat with his father’s 
consent; at any rate, that is what I suppose. So, 
one day, Kazbich went and waited by the roadside, 
about three versts beyond the village. The old 


44 A HERO OF OUR TIME 

man was returning from one of his futile searches 
for his daughter; his retainers were lagging behind. 
It was dusk. Deep in thought, he was riding at a 
walking pace when, suddenly, Kazbich darted out 
like a cat from behind a bush, sprang up behind him 
on the horse, flung him to the ground with a thrust 
of his dagger, seized the bridle and was off. A 
few of the retainers saw the whole affair from the 
hill; they dashed off in pursuit of Kazbich, but 
failed to overtake him.” 

“He requited himself for the loss of his horse, 
and took his revenge at the same time,” I said, with 
a view to evoking my companion’s opinion. 

“Of course, from their point of view,” said the 
staff-captain, “he was perfectly right.” 

I was involuntarily struck by the aptitude which 
the Russian displays for accommodating himself to 
the customs of the people in whose midst he hap¬ 
pens to be living. I know not whether this mental 
quality is deserving of censure or commendation, 
but it proves the incredible pliancy of his mind and 
the presence of that clear common sense which par¬ 
dons evil wherever it sees that evil is inevitable or 
impossible of annihilation. 


Chapter VII 

In the meantime we had finished our tea. The 
horses, which had been put to long before, were 
freezing in the snow. In the west the moon was 
growing pale, and was just on the point of plunging 
into the black clouds which were hanging over the 
distant summits like the shreds of a torn curtain. 
We went out of the hut. Contrary to my fellow- 
traveller’s prediction, the weather had cleared up, 
and there was a promise of a calm morning. The 
dancing choirs of the stars were interwoven in won¬ 
drous patterns on the distant horizon, and, one 
after another, they flickered out as the wan resplen¬ 
dence of the east suffused the dark, lilac vault of 
heaven, gradually illumining the steep mountain 
slopes, covered with the virgin snows. To right 
and left loomed grim and mysterious chasms, and 
masses of mist, eddying and coiling like snakes, 
were creeping thither along the furrows of the 
neighbouring cliffs, as though sentient and fear¬ 
ful of the approach of day. 

All was calm in heaven and on earth, calm as 
within the heart of a man at the moment of morn¬ 
ing prayer; only at intervals a cool wind rushed in 
from the east, lifting the horses’ manes which were 
covered with hoar-frost. We started off. The 
five lean jades dragged our wagons with difficulty 
along the tortuous road up Mount Gut. We our¬ 
selves walked behind, placing stones under the 
45 


46 A HERO OF OUR TIME 

wheels whenever the horses were spent. The road 
seemed to lead into the sky, for, so far as the eye 
could discern, it still mounted up and up, until 
finally it was lost in the cloud which, since early eve¬ 
ning, had been resting on the summit of Mount Gut, 
like a kite awaiting its prey. The snow crunched 
under our feet. The atmosphere grew so rarefied 
that to breathe was painful; ever and anon the 
blood rushed to my head, but withal a certain rap¬ 
turous sensation was diffused throughout my veins 
and I felt a species of delight at being so high up 
above the world. A childish feeling, I admit, but, 
when we retire from the conventions of society 
and draw close to nature, we involuntarily become 
as children: each attribute acquired by experience 
falls away from the soul, which becomes anew such 
as it was once and will surely be again. He whose 
lot it has been, as mine has been, to wander over 
the desolate mountains, long, long to observe 
their fantastic shapes, greedily to gulp down 
the life-giving air diffused through their ra¬ 
vines—he, of course, will understand my desire 
to communicate, to narrate, to sketch those magic 
pictures. 

Well, at length we reached the summit of Mount 
Gut and, halting, looked around us. Upon the 
mountain a grey cloud was hanging, and its cold 
breath threatened the approach of a storm; but in 
the east everything was so clear and golden that we 
—that is, the staff-captain and I—forgot all about 
the cloud. . . . Yes, the staff-captain too; in sim¬ 
ple hearts the feeling for the beauty and grandeur 
of nature is a hundred-fold stronger and more 
vivid than in us, ecstatic composers of narratives in 
words and on paper. 


BELA 47 

“You have grown accustomed, I suppose, to 
these magnificent pictures!” I said. 

“Yes, sir, you can even grow accustomed to the 
whistling of a bullet, that is to say, accustomed to 
concealing the involuntary thumping of your 
heart.” 

“I have heard, on the contrary, that many an old 
warrior actually finds that music agreeable.” 

“Of course, if it comes to that, it is agreeable; 
but only just because the heart beats more violently. 
Look!” he added, pointing towards the east. 
“What a country!” 

And, indeed, such a panorama I can hardly hope 
to see elsewhere. Beneath us lay the Koishaur 
Valley, intersected by the Aragva and another 
stream as if by two silver threads; a bluish mist 
was gliding along the valley, fleeing into the neigh¬ 
bouring defiles from the warm rays of the morning. 
To right and left the mountain crests, towering 
higher and higher, intersected each other and 
stretched out, covered with snows and thickets; in 
the distance were the same mountains, which now, 
however, had the appearance of two cliffs, one like 
to the other. And all these snows were burning in 
the crimson glow so merrily and so brightly that it 
seemed as though one could live in such a place for 
ever. The sun was scarcely visible behind the 
dark-blue mountain, which only a practised eye 
could distinguish from a thunder-cloud; but above 
the sun was a blood-red streak to which my compan¬ 
ion directed particular attention. 

“I told you,” he exclaimed, “that there would be 
dirty weather today! We must make haste, or 
perhaps it will catch us on Mount Krestov.—Get 
on!” he shouted to the drivers. 




48 A HERO OF OUR TIME 

Chains were put under the wheels in place of 
drags, so that they should not slide, the drivers 
took the horses by the reins, and the descent began. 
On the right was a cliff, on the left a precipice, so 
deep that an entire village of Ossetes at the bottom 
looted like a swallow’s nest. I shuddered, as the 
thought occurred to me that often in the depth of 
night, on that very road, where two wagons could 
not pass, a courier drives some ten times a year 
without climbing down from his rickety vehicle. 
One of our drivers was a Russian peasant from 
Yaroslavl, the other, an Ossete. The latter took 
out the leaders in good time and led the shaft-horse 
by the reins, using every possible precaution—but 
our heedless compatriot did not even climb down 
from his box! When I remarked to him that he 
might put himself out a bit, at least in the interests 
of my portmanteau, for which I had not the slight¬ 
est desire to clamber down into the abyss, he an¬ 
swered : 

“Eh, master, with the help of Heaven we shall 
arrive as safe and sound as the others; it’s not our 
first time, you know.” 

And he was right. We might just as easily have 
failed to arrive at all; but arrive we did, for all 
that. And if people would only reason a little 
more they would be convinced that life is not worth 
taking such a deal of trouble about. 

Perhaps, however, you would like to know the 
conclusion of the story of Bela? In the first place, 
this is not a novel, but a collection of travelling- 
notes, and, consequently, I cannot make the staff- 
captain tell the story sooner than he actually pro¬ 
ceeded to tell it. Therefore, you must wait a bit, 
or, if you like, turn over a few pages. Though I 


BELA 49 

do not advise you to do the latter, because the cross¬ 
ing of Mount Krestov .(or, as the erudite Gamba 
calls it, le mont St. Christophe *) is worthy of your 
curiosity. 

Well, then, we descended Mount Gut into the 
Chertov Valley. . . . There’s a romantic designa¬ 
tion for you! Already you have a vision of the 
evil spirit’s nest amid the inaccessible cliffs—but 
you are out of your reckoning there. The name 
“Chertov” is derived from the word cherta (bound- 
ary-line) and not from chort (devil), because, at 
one time, the valley marked the boundary of Geor¬ 
gia. We found it choked with snow-drifts, which - 
reminded us rather vividly of Saratov, Tambov, 
and other charming localities of our fatherland. 

“Look, there is Krestov!” said the staff-captain, 
when we had descended into the Chertov Valley, 
as he pointed out a hill covered with a shroud of 
snow. Upon the summit stood out the black out¬ 
line of a stone cross, and past it led an all but im¬ 
perceptible road which travellers use only when the 
side-road is obstructed with snow. Our drivers, 
declaring that no avalanches had yet fallen, spared 
the horses by conducting us round the mountain. 
At a turning we met four or five Ossetes, who of¬ 
fered us their services; and, catching hold of the 
wheels, proceeded, with a shout, to drag and hold 
up our cart. And, indeed, it is a dangerous road; 
on the right were masses of snow hanging above us, 
and ready, it seemed, at the first squall of wind to 
break off and drop into the ravine; the narrow road 
was partly covered with snow, which, in many 
places, gave way under our feet and, in others, was 

1 Krestov is an adjective meaning “of the cross” (Krest= cross) ; 
and, of course, is not the Russian for “Christophe.” 


5 o A HERO OF OUR TIME 

converted into ice by the action of the sun by day 
and the frosts by night, so that the horses kept fall¬ 
ing, and it was with difficulty that we ourselves 
made our way. On the left yawned a deep chasm, 
through which rolled a torrent, now hiding beneath 
a crust of ice, now leaping and foaming over the 
black rocks. In two hours we were barely able 
to double Mount Krestov—two versts in two 
hours! Meanwhile the clouds had descended, hail 
and snow fell; the wind, bursting into the ravines, 
howled and whistled like Nightingale the Robber. 1 
Soon the stone cross was hidden in the mist, the bil¬ 
lows of which, in ever denser and more compact 
masses, rushed in from the east. . . . 

Concerning that stone cross, by the way, there 
exists the strange, but widespread, tradition that 
it had been set up by the Emperor Peter the First 
when travelling through the Caucasus. In the first 
place, however, the Emperor went no farther than 
Daghestan; and, in the second place, there is an 
inscription in large letters on the cross itself, to 
the effect that it had been erected by order of Gen¬ 
eral Ermolov, and that too in the year 1824. 
Nevertheless, the tradition has taken such firm root, 
in spite of the inscription, that really you do not 
know what to believe; the more so, as it is not the 
custom to believe inscriptions. 

To reach the station Kobi, we still had to de¬ 
scend about five versts, across ice-covered rocks and 
plashy snow. The horses were exhausted; we 
were freezing; the snowstorm droned with ever-in¬ 
creasing violence, exactly like the storms of our own 

X A legendary Russian hero whose whistling knocked people 
down. 


bela. ^ i 

northern land, only its wild melodies were sadder 
and more melancholy. 

# u O Exile,” I thought, “thou art weeping for thy 
wide, free steppes! There mayest thou unfold thy 
cold wings, but here thou art stifled and confined, 
like an eagle beating his wings, with a shriek, 
against the grating of his iron cage!” 

“A bad look out,” said the staff-captain. “Look! 
There’s nothing to be seen all round but mist and 
snow. At any moment we may tumble into an abyss 
or stick fast in a cleft; and a little lower down, I 
dare say, the Baidara has risen so high that there is 
no getting across it. Oh, this Asia, I know it! 
Like people, like rivers! There’s no trusting them 
at all!” 

The drivers, shouting and cursing, belaboured 
the horses, which snorted, resisted obstinately and 
refused to budge on any account, notwithstanding 
the eloquence of the whips. 

“Your honour,” one of the drivers said to me at 
length, “you see, we will never reach Kobi today. 
Won’t you give orders to turn to the left while we 
can? There is something black yonder on the 
slope—probably huts. Travellers always stop 
there in bad weather, sir. They say,” he added, 
pointing to the Ossetes, “that they will lead us 
there if you will give them a tip.” 

“I know that, my friend, I know that without 
your telling me,” said the staff-captain. “Oh, these 
beasts! They are delighted to seize any pretext 
for extorting a tip!” 

“You must confess, however,” I said, “that we 
should be worse off without them.” 

“Just so, just so,” he growled to himself. “I 


52 A HERO OF OUR TIME 

know them well—these guides! They scent out 
by instinct a chance of taking advantage of people. 
As if it was impossible to find the way without 
them!” 

Accordingly we turned aside to the left, and, 
somehow or other, after a good deal of trouble, 
made our way to the wretched shelter, which con¬ 
sisted of two huts built of stone slabs and rubble, 
surrounded by a wall of the same material. Our 
ragged hosts received us with alacrity. I learned 
afterwards that the Government supplies them with 
money and food upon condition that they put up 
travellers who are overtaken by storm. 


Chapter VIII 

“All is for the best,” I said, sitting down close 
by the fire. “Now you will finish telling me your 
story about Bela. I am certain that what you have 
already told me was not the end of it.” 

“Why are you so certain?” answered the staff- 
captain, winking and smiling slyly. 

“Because things don’t happen like that. A story 
with such an unusual beginning must also have an 
unusual ending.” 

“You have guessed, of course.” . . . 

“I am very glad to hear it.” 

“It is all very well for you to be glad, but, in¬ 
deed, it makes me sad when I think of it. Bela 
was a splendid girl. In the end I grew accustomed 
to her just as if she had been my own daughter, 
and she loved me. I must tell you that I have no 
family. I have had no news of my father and 
mother for twelve years or so, and, in my earlier 
days, I never thought of providing myself with a 
wife—and now, you know, it wouldn’t do. So I 
was glad to have found some one to spoil. She 
used to sing to us or dance the Lezginka. 1 . . . 
And what a dancer she was! I have seen our own 
ladies in provincial society; and on one occasion, 
sir, about twenty years ago, I was even in the 
Nobles’ Club at Moscow—but was there a woman 
to be compared with her? Not one! Grigori 

1 Lezghian dance. 


53 


54 A HERO OF OUR TIME 

Aleksandrovich dressed her up like a doll, petted 
and pampered her, and it was simply astonishing to 
see how pretty she grew while she lived with us. 
The sunburn disappeared from her face and hands, 
and a rosy colour came into her cheeks. . . . What 
a merry girl she was! Always making fun of me, 
the little rogue! . . . Heaven forgive her!” 

“And when you told her of her father’s death?” 

“We kept it a secret from her for a long time, 
until she had grown accustomed to her position; 
and then, when she was told, she cried for a day 
or two and forgot all about it. 

“For four months or so everything went on as 
well as it possibly could. Grigori Aleksandrovich, 
as I think I have already mentioned, was passion¬ 
ately fond of hunting; he was always craving to 
be off into the forest after boars or wild goats— 
but now it would be as much as he would do to go 
beyond the fortress rampart. All at once, how¬ 
ever, I saw that he was beginning again to have 
fits of abstraction, walking about his room with 
his hands clasped behind his back. One day after 
that, without telling any one, he set off shooting. 
During the whole morning he was not to be seen; 
then the same thing happened another time, and 
so on—oftener and oftener. . . . 

“ ‘This looks bad!’ I said to myself. ‘Some¬ 
thing must have come between them!’ 

“One morning I paid them a visit—I can see it 
all in my mind’s eye, as if it was happening now. 
Bela was sitting on the bed, wearing a black silk 
jacket, and looking rather pale and so sad that I 
was alarmed. 

“ ‘Where is Pechorin?’ I asked. 

“ ‘Hunting.’ 


55 


BELA 

“ 'When did he go—today?’ 

“She was silent, as if she found a difficulty in 
answering. 

“ ‘No, he has been gone since yesterday,’ she said 
at length, with a heavy sigh. 

“ ‘Surely nothing has happened to him!’ 

“ ‘Yesterday I thought and thought the whole 
day,’ she answered through her tears; ‘I imagined 
all sorts of misfortunes. At one time I fancied 
that he has been wounded by a wild boar, at an¬ 
other time, that he had been carried off by a Che- 
chene into the mountains. . . . But, now, I have 
come to think that he no longer loves me.’ 

“ ‘In truth, my dear girl, you could not have im¬ 
agined anything worse!’ 

“She burst out crying; then, proudly raising her 
head, she wiped away the tears and continued: 

“ ‘If he does not love me, then who prevents him 
sending me home? I am not putting any constraint 
on him. But, if things go on like this, I will go 
away myself—I am not a slave, I am a prince’s 
daughter!’ . . . 

“I tried to talk her over. 

“ ‘Listen, Bela. You see it is impossible for him 
to stop in here with you for ever, as if he was 
sewn on to your petticoat. He is a young man and 
fond of hunting. Off he’ll go, but you will find 
that he will come back; and, if you are going to 
be unhappy, you will soon make him tired of you.’ 

“ ‘True, true!’ she said. ‘I will be merry.’ 

“And with a burst of laughter, she seized her 
tambourine, began to sing, dance, and gambol 
around me. But that did not last long either; she 
fell upon the bed again and buried her face in her 
hands. 


56 A HERO OF OUR TIME 

“What could I do with her? You know I have 
never been accustomed to the society of women. 
I thought and thought how to cheer her up, but 
couldn’t hit on anything. For some time both of 
us remained silent. ... A most unpleasant situa¬ 
tion, sir! 

“At length I said to her: 

“ ‘Would you like us to go and take a walk on 
the rampart? The weather is splendid.’ 

“This was in September, and indeed it was a 
wonderful day, bright and not too hot. The 
mountains could be seen as clearly as though 
they were but a hand’s-breadth away. We 
went, and walked in silence to and fro along the 
rampart of the fortress. At length she sat down 
on the sward and I sat beside her. In truth, now 
it is funny to think of it all! I used to run after 
her just like a kind of children’s nurse! 

“Our fortress was situated in a lofty position, 
and the view from the rampart was superb. On 
one side, the wide clearing, seamed by a few clefts, 
was bounded by the forest which stretched out to 
the very ridge of the mountains. Here and there, 
on the clearing, villages were to be seen sending 
forth their smoke, and there were droves of horses 
roaming about. On the other side flowed a tiny 
stream, and close to its banks came the dense un¬ 
dergrowth which covered the flinty heights join¬ 
ing the principal chain of the Caucasus. We sat in 
a corner of the bastion, so that we could see every¬ 
thing on both sides. Suddenly I perceived some 
one on a grey horse riding out of the forest; nearer 
and nearer he approached until finally he stopped 
on the far side of the river, about a hundred 
fathoms from us, and began to wheel his horse 


BELA 57 

round and round like one possessed. ‘Strange!’ 
I thought. 

“ ‘Look, look, Bela,’ I said, ‘you’ve got young 
eyes—what sort of a horseman is that? Who is it 
he has come to amuse?’ . . . 

“ ‘It is Kazbich!’ she exclaimed after a glance. 

“‘Ah, the robber! Come to laugh at us, has 
he?’ 

“I looked closely, and sure enough it was Kaz¬ 
bich, with his swarthy face, and as ragged and dirty 
as ever. 

“ ‘It is my father’s horse!’ said Bela, seizing my 
arm. 

“She was trembling like a leaf and her eyes were 
sparkling. 

“ ‘Aha!’ I said to myself. ‘There is robber’s 
blood in your veins still, my dear!’ 

“ ‘Come here,’ I said to the sentry. “Look to 
your gun and unhorse that gallant for me—and 
you shall have a silver ruble.’ 

“ ‘Very well, your honour, only he won’t keep 
still’ 

“ ‘Tell him to!’ I said, with a laugh. 

“ ‘Hey, friend!’ cried the sentry, waving his 
hand. ‘Wait a bit. What are you spinning round 
like a humming-top for?’ 

“Kazbich halted and gave ear to the sentry— 
probably thinking that we were going to parley 
with him. Quite the contrary! . . . My grena¬ 
dier took aim. . . . Bang! . . . Missed! . . . 
Just as the powder flashed in the pan Kazbich 
jogged his horse, which gave a bound to one side. 
He stood up in his stirrups, shouted something in 
his own language, made a threatening gesture with 
his whip—and was off. 


58 A HERO OF OUR TIME 

“ ‘Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?’ I said to 
the sentry. 

“ ‘He has gone away to die, your honour,’ he 
answered. ‘There’s no killing a man of that cursed 
race at one stroke.’ 

“A quarter of an hour later Pechorin returned 
from hunting. Bela threw herself on his neck 
without a single complaint, without a single re¬ 
proach for his lengthy absence! . . . Even I was 
angry with him by this time! 

“ ‘Good heavens!’ I said; ‘why, I tell you, Kaz- 
bich was here on the other side of the river just 
a moment ago, and we shot at him. How easily 
you might have run up against him, you know! 
These mountaineers are a vindictive race! Do you 
suppose he does not guess that you gave Azamat 
some help? And I wager that he recognized Bela 
today! I know he was desperately fond of her a 
year ago—he told me so himself—and, if he had 
any hope of getting together a proper bridegroom’s 
gift, he would certainly have sought her in mar¬ 
riage.’ 

“At this Pechorin became thoughtful. 

“ ‘Yes,’ he answered. ‘We must be more cau¬ 
tious—Bela, from this day forth you mustn’t walk 
on the rampart any more.’ 

“In the evening I had a lengthy explanation with 
him. I was vexed that his feelings towards the 
poor girl had changed; to say nothing of his spend¬ 
ing half the day hunting, his manner towards her 
had become cold. He rarely caressed her, and 
she was beginning perceptibly to pine away; her 
little face was becoming drawn, her large eyes 
growing dim. 


BELA 59 

“ ‘What are you sighing for, Bela?’ I would 
ask her. ‘Are you sad?’ 

“‘No!’ 

“ ‘Do you want anything?’ 

“‘No!’ 

“ ‘You are pining for your kinsfolk?’ 

“ ‘I have none!’ 

“Sometimes for whole days not a word could 
be drawn from her but ‘Yes’ and ‘No.’ 

“So I straightway proceeded to talk to Pechorin 
about her.” 


Chapter IX 

“ ‘Listen, Maksim Maksimych,’ said Pechorin. 
‘Mine is an unfortunate disposition; whether it is 
the result of my upbringing or whether it is innate 
—I know not. I only know this, that if I am the 
cause of unhappiness in others I myself am no less 
unhappy. Of course, that is a poor consolation to 
them—only the fact remains that such is the case. 
In my early youth, from the moment I ceased to 
be under the guardianship of my relations, I be¬ 
gan madly to enjoy all the pleasures which money 
could buy—and, of course, such pleasures became 
irksome to me. Then I launched out into the 
world of fashion—and that, too, soon palled upon 
me. I fell in love with fashionable beauties and 
was loved by them, but my imagination and egoism 
alone were aroused; my heart remained empty. . . . 
I began to read, to study—but sciences also be¬ 
came utterly wearisome to me. I saw that neither 
fame nor happiness depends on them in the least, 
because the happiest people are the uneducated, and 
fame is good fortune, to attain which you have 
only to be smart. Then I grew bored. . . . Soon 
afterwards I was transferred to the Caucasus; and 
that was the happiest time of my life. I hoped 
that under the bullets of the Chechenes boredom 
could not exist—a vain hope! In a month I grew 
so accustomed to the buzzing of the bullets and 
60 


BELA 61 

to the proximity of death that, to tell the truth, I 
paid more attention to the gnats—and I became 
more bored than ever, because I had lost what was 
almost my last hope. When I saw Bela in my own 
house; when, for the first time, I held her on my 
knee and kissed her black locks, I, fool that I was, 
thought that she was an angel sent to me by sym¬ 
pathetic fate. . . . Again I was mistaken; the love 
of a savage is little better than that of your lady 
of quality, the barbaric ignorance and simplicity of 
the one weary you as much as the coquetry of the 
other. I am not saying that I do not love her 
still; I am grateful to her for a few fairly sweet 
moments; I would give my life for her—only I 
am bored with her. . . . Whether I am a fool or 
a villain I know not; but this is certain, I am also 
most deserving of pity—perhaps more than she. 
My soul has been spoiled by the world, my im¬ 
agination is unquiet, my heart insatiate. To me 
everything is of little moment?' I become as easily 
accustomed to grief as to joy, and my life grows 
emptier day by day. One expedient only is left 
to me—travel. 

“ ‘As‘Toon as I can, I shall set off—but not to 
Europe. Heaven forfend! I shall go to Amer¬ 
ica, to Arabia, to India—perchance I shall die 
somewhere on the way. At any rate, I am con¬ 
vinced that, thanks to storms and bad roads, that 
last consolation will not quickly be exhausted P 

“For a long time he went on speaking thus, and 
his words have remained stamped upon my mem¬ 
ory, because it was the first time that I had heard 
such things from a man of five-and-twenty—and 
Heaven grant it may be the last. Isn’t it aston¬ 
ishing? Tell me, please,” continued the staff-cap- 


62 A HERO OF OUR TIME 

tain, appealing to me. “You used to live in the 
Capital, I think, and that not so very long ago. Is 
it possible that the young men there are all like 
that?” 

I replied that there were a good many people 
who used the same sort of language, that, prob¬ 
ably, there might even be some who spoke in all 
sincerity; that disillusionment, moreover, like all 
other vogues, having had its beginning in the higher 
strata of society, had descended to the lower, where 
it was being worn threadbare, and that, now, those 
who were really and truly bored strove to conceal 
their misfortune as if it were a vice. The staff- 
captain did not understand these subtleties, shook 
his head, and smiled slyly. 

“Anyhow, I suppose it was the French who in¬ 
troduced the fashion?” 

“No, the English.” 

“Aha, there you are!” he answered. “They al¬ 
ways have been arrant drunkards, you know!” 

Involuntarily I recalled to mind a certain lady, 
living in Moscow, who used to maintain that Byron 
was nothing more nor less than a drunkard. How¬ 
ever, the staff-captain’s observation was more ex¬ 
cusable; in order to abstain from strong drink, he 
naturally endeavoured to convince himself that all 
the misfortunes in the world are the result of 
drunkenness. 


Chapter X 


Meanwhile the staff-captain continued his story. 

“Kazbich never put in an appearance again; but 
somehow—I don’t know why—I could not get the 
idea, out of my head that he had had a reason for 
coming, and that some mischievous scheme was in 
his mind. 

“Well, one day Pechorin tried to persuade me 
to go boar-hunting with him. For a long time I 
refused. What novelty was a wild boar to me? 

“However, off he dragged me, all the same. 
We took four or five soldiers and set out early in 
the morning. Up till ten o’clock we scurried about 
the reeds and the forest—there wasn’t a wild beast 
to be found! 

“ ‘I say, oughtn’t we to be going back?’ I said. 
‘What’s the use of sticking at it? It is evident 
enough that we have happened on an unlucky day!’ 

“But, in spite of heat and fatigue, Pechorin 
didn’t like to return empty-handed. . . . That is 
just the kind of man he was; whatever he set his 
heart on he had to have—evidently, in his child¬ 
hood, he had been spoiled by an indulgent mother. 
At last, at midday, we discovered one of those 
cursed wild boars—Bang! Bang!—No good!— 
Off it went into the reeds. That was an unlucky 
day, to be sure! ... So, after a short rest, we set 
off homeward. . . . 

“We rode in silence, side by side, giving the 
63 


64 A HERO OF OUR TIME 

horses their head. We had almost reached the 
fortress, and only the brushwood concealed it from 
view. Suddenly a shot rang out. ... We glanced 
at each other, both struck with the self-same suspi¬ 
cion. . . . We galloped headlong in the direction 
of the shot, looked, and saw the soldiers clustered 
together on the rampart and pointing towards a 
field, along which a rider was flying at full speed, 
holding something white across his saddle. Gri¬ 
gori Aleksandrovich yelled like any Chechene, 
whipped his gun from its cover, and gave chase 
—I after him. 

“Luckily, thanks to our unsuccessful hunt, our 
horses were not jaded; they strained under the sad¬ 
dle, and with every moment we drew nearer and 
nearer. ... At length I recognized Kazbich, only 
I could not make out what it was that he was hold¬ 
ing in front of him. 

“Then I drew level with Pechorin and shouted 
to him: 

“‘It is Kazbich!’ 

“He looked at me, nodded, and struck his horse 
with his whip. 

“At last we were within gunshot of Kazbich. 
Whether it was that his horse was jaded or not 
so good as ours, I don’t know, but, in spite of all 
his efforts, it did not get along very fast. I fancy 
at that moment he remembered his Karagyoz! 

“I looked at Pechorin. He was taking aim as 
he galloped. . . . 

“‘Don’t shoot,’ I cried. ‘Save the shot! We 
will catch up with him as it is.’ 

“Oh, these young men! Always taking fire at 
the wrong moment! The shot rang out and the 
bullet broke one of the horse’s hind legs. It gave 


BELA 65 

a few fiery leaps forward, stumbled, and fell to its 
knees. Kazbich sprang off, and then we perceived 
that it was a woman he was holding in his arms— 
a woman wrapped in a veil. It was Bela—poor 
Bela! He shouted something to us in his own lan¬ 
guage and raised his dagger over her. . . . Delay 
was useless; I fired in my turn, at haphazard. 
Probably the bullet struck him in the shoulder, be¬ 
cause he dropped his hand suddenly. When the 
smoke cleared off, we could see the wounded horse 
lying on the ground and Bela beside it; but Kazbich, 
his gun flung away, was clambering like a cat up 
the cliff, through the brushwood. I should have 
liked to have brought him down from there—but 
I hadn’t a charge ready. We jumped off our 
horses and rushed to Bela. Poor girl! She was 
lying motionless, and the blood was pouring in 
streams from her wound. The villain! If he had 
struck her to the heart—well and good, everything 
would at least have been finished there and then; 
but to stab her in the back like that—the scoundrel! 
She was unconscious. We tore the veil into strips 
and bound up the wound as tightly as we could. 
In vain Pechorin kissed her cold lips—it was im¬ 
possible to bring her to. 

“Pechorin mounted; I lifted Bela from the 
ground and somehow managed to place her before 
him on his saddle; he put his arm round her and 
we rode back. 

“ ‘Look here, Maksim Maksimych,’ said Gri¬ 
gori Aleksandrovich, after a few moments of si¬ 
lence. ‘We will never bring her in alive like this.’ 

“‘True!’ I said, and we put our horses to a 
full gallop. 


Chapter XI 

“A crowd was awaiting us at the fortress gate. 
Carefully we carried the wounded girl to Pechorin’s 
quarters, and then we sent for the doctor. The 
latter was drunk, but he came, examined the wound, 
and announced that she could not live more than a 
day. He was mistaken, though.” 

“She recovered?” I asked the staff-captain, 
seizing him by the arm, and involuntarily rejoicing. 

“No,” he replied, “but the doctor was so far 
mistaken that she lived two days longer.” 

“Explain, though, how Kazbich made off with 
herJ” 

“It was like this: in spite of Pechorin’s prohi¬ 
bition, she went out of the fortress and down to 
the river. It was a very hot day, you know, and 
she sat on a rock and dipped her feet in the water. 
Up crept Kazbich, pounced upon her, silenced her, 
and dragged her into the bushes. Then he sprang 
on his horse and made off. In the meantime she 
succeeded in crying out, the sentries took the alarm, 
fired, but wide of the mark; and thereupon we ar¬ 
rived on the scene.” 

“But what did Kazbich want to carry her off 
for?” 

“Good gracious! Why, every one knows these 
Circassians are a race of thieves; they can’t keep 
their hands off anything that is left lying about! 
They may not want a thing, but they will steal it, 
66 



BELA 67 

for all that. Still, you mustn’t be too hard on 
them. And, besides, he had been in love with her 
for a long time.” 

‘‘And Bela died?” 

“Yes, she died, but she suffered for a long time, 
and we were fairly knocked up with her, I can tell 
you. About ten o’clock in the evening she came to 
herself. We were sitting by her bed. As soon as 
ever she opened her eyes she began to call Pechorin. 

“ ‘I am here beside you, my jdneclika’ (that is, 
‘my darling’), he answered, taking her by the hand. 

“ ‘I shall die,” she said. 

“We began to comfort her, telling her that the 
doctor had promised infallibly to cure her. She 
shook her little head and turned to the wall—she 
did not want to die! . . . 

“At night she became delirious, her head burned, 
at times a feverish paroxysm convulsed her whole 
body. She talked incoherently about her father, 
her brother; she yearned for the mountains, for 
her home. . . . Then she spoke of Pechorin also, 
called him various fond names, or reproached him 
for having ceased to love his janechka . 

“He listened to her in silence, his head sunk in 
his hands; but yet, during the whole time, I did not 
notice a single tear-drop on his lashes. I do not 
know whether he was actually unable to weep or 
was mastering himself; but for my part I have 
never seen anything more pitiful. 

“Towards morning the delirium passed off. 
For an hour or so she lay motionless, pale, and so 
weak that it was hardly possible to observe that 
she was breathing. After that she grew better and 
began to talk: only about what, think you? Such 
thoughts come only to the dying! . . . She la- 


68 A HERO OF OUR TIME 

merited that she was not a Christian, that in the 
other world her soul would never meet the soul of 
Grigori Aleksandrovich, and that in Paradise an¬ 
other woman would be his companion. The 
thought occurred to me to baptize her before her 
death. I told her my idea; she looked at me unde¬ 
cidedly, and for a long time was unable to utter a 
word. Finally she answered that she would die in 
the faith in which she had been born. A whole 
day passed thus. What a change that day made in 
her! Her pale cheeks fell in, her eyes grew ever 
so large, her lips burned. She felt a consuming 
heat within her, as though a red-hot blade was 
piercing her breast. 

“The second night came on. We did not close 
our eyes or leave the bedside. She suffered ter¬ 
ribly, and groaned; and directly the pain began to 
abate she endeavoured to assure Grigori Aleksan¬ 
drovich that she felt better, tried to persuade him 
to go to bed, kissed his hand and would not let it 
out of hers. Before the morning she began to feel 
the death agony and to toss about. She knocked 
the bandage off, and the blood flowed afresh. 
When the wound was bound up again she grew 
quiet for a moment and begged Pechorin to kiss 
her. He fell on his knees beside the bed, raised 
her head from the pillow, and pressed his lips to 
hers—which were growing cold. She threw her 
trembling arms closely round his neck, as if with 
that kiss she wished to yield up her soul to him.— 
No, she did well to die! Why, what would have 
become of her if Grigori Aleksandrovich had aban¬ 
doned her? And that is what would have hap¬ 
pened, sooner or later. 

“During half the following day she was calm, si- 


BELA 69 

lent and docile, however much the doctor tortured 
her with his fomentations and mixtures. 

‘Good heavens!’ I said to him, ‘you know you 
said yourself that she was certain to die, so what 
is the good of all these preparations of yours?’ 

“ ‘Even so, it is better to do all this,’ he replied, 
‘so that I may have an easy conscience.’ 

“A pretty conscience, forsooth! 

“After midday Bela began to suffer from thirst. 
We opened the windows, but it was hotter outside 
than in the room; we placed ice round the bed—all 
to no purpose. I knew that that intolerable thirst 
was a sign of the approaching end, and I told Pech- 
orin so. 

“‘Water, water!’ she said in a hoarse voice, 
raising herself up from the bed. 

“Pechorin turned pale as a sheet, seized a glass, 
filled it, and gave it to her. I covered my eyes 
with my hands and began to say a prayer—1 can’t 
remember what. . . . Yes, my friend, many a time 
have I seen people die in hospitals or on the field 
of battle, but this was something altogether dif¬ 
ferent! Still, this one thing grieves me, I must 
confess: she died without even once calling me to 
mind. Yet I loved her, I should think, like a 
father! . . . Well, God forgive her! . . . And, 
to tell the truth, what am I that she should have 
remembered me when she was dying? . . . 

“As soon as she had drunk the water, she grew 
easier—but in about three minutes she breathed 
her last! We put a looking-glass to her lips—it 
was undimmed! 

“I led Pechorin from the room, and we went on 
to the fortress rampart. For a long time we 
walked side by side, to and fro, speaking not a 


70 A HERO OF OUR TIME 

word and with our hands clasped behind our backs. 
His face expressed nothing out of the common— 
and that vexed me. Had I been in his place, I 
should have died of grief. At length he sat down 
on the ground in the shade and began to draw some¬ 
thing in the sand with his stick. More for form’s 
sake than anything, you know, I tried to console 
him and began to talk. He raised his head and 
burst into a laugh! At that laugh a cold shud¬ 
der ran through me. ... I went away to order a 
coffin. 

“I confess it was partly to distract my thoughts 
that I busied myself in that way. I possessed a 
little piece of Circassian stuff, and I covered the 
coffin with it, and decked it with some Circassian 
silver lace which Grigori Aleksandrovich had 
bought for Bela herself. 

“Early next morning we buried her behind the 
fortress, by the river, beside the spot where she 
had sat for the last time. Around her little grave 
white acacia shrubs and elder-trees have now grown 
up. I should have liked to erect a cross, but that 
would not have done, you know—after all, she was 
not a Christian.” 

“And what of Pechorin?” I asked. 

“Pechorin was ill for a long time, and grew thin, 
poor fellow; but we never spoke of Bela from that 
time forth. I saw that it would be disagreeable to 
him, so what would have been the use? About 

three months later he was appointed to the E- 

Regiment, and departed for Georgia. We have 
never met since. Yet, when I come to think of it, 
somebody told me not long ago that he had re¬ 
turned to Russia—but it was not in the general 



BELA 71 

orders of the corps. Besides, to the like of us 
news is late in coming.” 

Hereupon—probably to drown sad memories— 
he launched forth into a lengthy dissertation on the 
unpleasantness of learning news a year late. 

I did not interrupt him, nor did I listen. 

In an hour’s time a chance of proceeding on our 
journey presented itself. The snowstorm subsided, 
the sky became clear, and we set off. On the 
way I involuntarily let the conversation turn on 
Bela and Pechorin. 

“You have not heard what became of Kazbich?” 
I asked. 

“Kazbich? In truth, I don’t know. I have heard 
that with the Shapsugs, on our right flank, there is 
a certain Kazbich, a dare-devil fellow who rides 
about at a walking pace, in a red tunic, under our 
gullets, and bows politely whenever one hums near 
him—but it can scarcely be the same person!” . . . 

In Kobia, Maksim Maksimych and I parted com¬ 
pany. I posted on, and he, on account of his heavy 
luggage, was unable to follow me. We had no ex¬ 
pectation of ever meeting again, but meet we did, 
and, if you like, I will tell you how—it is quite a 
history. ... You must acknowledge, though, that 
Maksim Maksimych is a man worthy of all re¬ 
spect. ... If you admit that, I shall be fully 
rewarded for my, perhaps, too lengthy story. 















BOOK TWO 


MAKSIM MAKSIMYCH 


Maksim Maksimych 

After parting with Maksim Maksimych, I gal¬ 
loped briskly through the gorges of the Terek and 
Darial, breakfasted in Kazbek, drank tea in Lars, 
and arrived at Vladikavkaz in time for supper. I 
spare you a description of the mountains, as well as 
exclamations which convey no meaning, and word- 
paintings which convey no image—especially to 
those who have never been in the Caucasus. I also 
omit statistical observations, which I am quite sure 
nobody would read. 

I put up at the inn which is frequented by all 
who travel in those parts, and where, by the way, 
there is no one who you can order to roast your 
pheasant and cook your cabbage-soup, because the 
three veterans who have charge of the inn are 
either so stupid, or so drunk, that it is impossible 
to knock any sense at all out of them. 

I was informed that I should have to stay there 
three days longer, because the “Adventure” had not 
yet arrived from Ekaterinograd and consequently 
could not start on the return journey. What a 
misadventure! 1 . . . But a bad pun is no consola¬ 
tion to a Russian, and, for the sake of something 
to occupy my thoughts, I took it into my head to 
write down the story about Bela, which I had heard 

1 In Russian— okaziya— occasion, adventure, etc.; chto za okaziya 
=how unfortunate! 


76 A HERO OF OUR TIME 

from Maksim Maksimych—never imagining that it 
would be the first link in a long chain of novels: 
you see how an insignificant event has sometimes 
dire results! . . . Perhaps, however, you do not 
know what the “Adventure” is? It is a convoy— 
composed of half a company of infantry, with a 
cannon—which escorts baggage-trains through Ka- 
bardia from Vladikavkaz to Ekaterinograd. 

The first day I found the time hang on my hands 
dreadfully. Early next morning a vehicle drove 
into the courtyard. . . . Aha! Maksim Maksim¬ 
ych! . . . We met like a couple of old friends. 
I offered to share my own room with him, and he 
accepted my hospitality without standing upon cere¬ 
mony; he even clapped me on the shoulder and 
puckered up his mouth by way of a smile—a queer 
fellow, that! . . . 

Maksim Maksimych was profoundly versed in 
the culinary art. He roasted the pheasant aston¬ 
ishingly well and basted it successfully with cu¬ 
cumber sauce. I was obliged to acknowledge that, 
but for him, I should have had to remain on a dry- 
food diet. A bottle of Kakhetian wine helped us 
to forget the modest number of dishes—of which 
there was one, all told. Then we lit our pipes, 
took our chairs, and sat down—I by the window, 
and he by the stove, in which a fire had been lighted 
because the day was damp and cold. We remained 
silent. What had we to talk about? He had al¬ 
ready told me all that was of interest about him¬ 
self and I had nothing to relate. I looked out of 
the window. Here and there, behind the trees, I 
caught glimpses of a number of poor, low houses 
straggling along the bank of the Terek, which 
flowed seaward in an ever-widening stream; farther 


MAKSIM MAKSIMYCH 77 

off rose the dark-blue, jagged wall of the moun¬ 
tains, behind which Mount Kazbek gazed forth in 
his high-priest’s hat of white. I took a mental 
farewell of them; I felt sorry to leave them. . . . 

Thus we sat for a considerable time. The sun 
was sinking behind the cold summits and a whitish 
mist was beginning to spread over the valleys, when 
the silence was broken by the jingling of the bell of 
a travelling-carriage and the shouting of drivers in 
the street. A few vehicles, accompanied by dirty 
Armenians, drove into the courtyard of the inn, and 
behind them came an empty travelling-carriage. 
Its light movement, comfortable arrangement, and 
elegant appearance gave it a kind of foreign stamp. 
Behind it walked a man with large moustaches. 
He was wearing a Hungarian jacket and was rather 
well dressed for a manservant. From the bold 
manner in which he shook the ashes out of his pipe 
and shouted at the coachman it was impossible to 
mistake his calling. He was obviously the spoiled 
servant of an indolent master—something in the 
nature of a Russian Figaro. 

“Tell me, my good man,” I called to him out 
of the window. “What is it?—Has the ‘Adven¬ 
ture* arrived, eh?” 

He gave me a rather insolent glance, straight¬ 
ened his cravat, and turned away. An Armenian, 
who was walking near him, smiled and answered 
for him that the “Adventure” had, in fact, arrived, 
and would start on the return journey the follow¬ 
ing morning. 

“Thank heavens!” said Maksim Maksimych, 
who had come up to the window at that moment. 
“What a wonderful carriage!” he added; “prob¬ 
ably it belongs to some official who is going to Tiflis 


78 A HERO OF OUR TIME 

for a judicial inquiry. You can see that he is unac¬ 
quainted with our little mountains! No, my 
friend, you’re not serious! They are not for the 
like of you; why, they would shake even an Eng¬ 
lish carriage to bits!—But who could it be? Let 
us go and find out.” 

We went out into the corridor, at the end of 
which there was an open door leading into a side 
room. The manservant and a driver were drag¬ 
ging portmanteaux into the room. 

“I say, my man!” the staff-captain asked him: 
“Whose is that marvellous carriage?—Eh?—A 
beautiful carriage!” 

Without turning round the manservant growled 
something to himself as he undid a portmanteau. 
Maksim Maksimych grew angry. 

“I am speaking to you, my friend!” he said, 
touching the uncivil fellow on the shoulder. 

“Whose carriage?—My master’s.” 

“And who is your master?” 

“Pechorin-” 

“What did you say? What? Pechorin?— 
Great Heavens! . . . Did he not serve in the 
Caucasus?” exclaimed Maksim Maksimych, pluck¬ 
ing me by the sleeve. His eyes were sparkling with 
joy. 

“Yes, he served there, I think—but I have not 
been with him long.” 

“Well! Just so! . . . Just so! . . . Grigori 
Aleksandrovich? . . . that is his name, of course? 
Your master and I were friends,” he added, giving 
the manservant a friendly clap on the shoulder with 
such force as to cause him to stagger. 

“Excuse me, sir, you are hindering me,” said the 
latter, frowning. 



MAKSIM M AKSIMY CH 79 

“What a fellow you are, my friend! Why, 
don’t you know, your master and I were bosom 
friends, and lived together ? . . . But where has he 
put up?” 

The servant intimated that Pechorin had stayed 
to take supper and pass the night at Colonel 
N-’s. 

“But won’t he be looking in here in the eve¬ 
ning?” said Maksim Maksimych. “Or, you, my 
man, won’t you be going over to him for some¬ 
thing? ... If you do, tell him that Maksim Mak¬ 
simych is here; just say that—he’ll know!—I’ll give 
you half a ruble for a tip!” 

The manservant made a scornful face on hear¬ 
ing such a modest promise, but he assured Maksim 
Maksimych that he would execute his commission. 

“He’ll be sure to come running up directly!” 
said Maksim Maksimych, with an air of triumph. 
“I will go outside the gate and wait for him! Ah, 
it’s a pity I am not acquainted with Colonel 
N-!” 

Maksim Maksimych sat down on a little bench 
outside the gate, and I went to my room. I confess 
that I also was awaiting this Pechorin’s appearance 
with a certain amount of impatience—although, 
from the staff-captain’s story, I had formed a by no 
means favourable idea of him. Still certain traits 
in his character struck me as remarkable. In an 
hour’s time one of the old soldiers brought a steam¬ 
ing samovar and a teapot. 

“Won’t you have some tea, Maksim Mak¬ 
simych?” I called out of the window. 

“Thank you. I am not thirsty, somehow.” 

“Oh, do have some! It is late, you know, and 
cold!” 




80 A HERO OF OUR TIME 

“No thank you.” . . . 

“Well, just as you like!” 

I began my tea alone. About ten minutes after¬ 
wards my old captain came in. 

“You are right, you know; it would be better 
to have a drop of tea—but I was waiting for Pech- 
orin. His man has been gone a long time now, but 
evidently something has detained him.” 

The staff-captain hurriedly sipped a cup of tea, 
refused a second, and went off again outside the 
gate—not without a certain amount of disquietude. 
It was obvious that the old man was mortified by 
Pechorin’s neglect, the more so because a short time 
previously he had been telling me of their friend¬ 
ship, and up to an hour ago had been convinced that 
Pechorin would come running up immediately on 
hearing his name. 

It was already late and dark when I opened the 
window and began to call Maksim Maksimych, say¬ 
ing that it was time to go to bed. He muttered 
something through his teeth. I repeated my invita¬ 
tion—he made no answer. 

I left a candle on the stove-seat, and, wrapping 
myself up in my cloak, I lay down on the couch 
and soon fell into slumber; and I would have slept 
on quietly had not Maksim Maksimych awakened 
me as he came into the room. It was then very 
late. He threw his pipe on the table, began to 
walk up and down the room, and to rattle about at 
the stove. At last he lay down, but for a long time 
he kept coughing, spitting, and tossing about. 

“Tne bugs are biting you, are they not?” I 
asked. 

“Yes, that is it,” he answered, with a heavy sigh. 

I woke early the next morning, but Maksim 


MAKSIM MAKSIMYCH 81 

Maksimych had anticipated me. I found him sit¬ 
ting on the little bench at the gate. 

“I have to go to the Commandant,” he said, “so, 
if Pechorin comes, please send for me.” . . . 

I gave my promise. He ran off as if his limbs 
had regained their youthful strength and supple¬ 
ness. 

The morning was fresh and lovely. Golden 
clouds had massed themselves on the mountain- 
tops like a new range of aerial mountains. Before 
the gate a wide square spread out; behind it the 
bazaar was seething with people, the day being 
Sunday. Barefooted Ossete boys, carrying wal¬ 
lets of honeycomb on their shoulders, were hover¬ 
ing around me. I cursed them; I had other things 
to think of—I was beginning to share the worthy 
staff-captain’s uneasiness. 

Before ten minutes had passed the man we were 
awaiting appeared at the end of the square. He 
was walking with Colonel N., who accompanied 
him as far as the inn, said good-bye to him, and 
then turned back to the fortress. I immediately 
dispatched one of the old soldiers for Maksim 
Maksimych. 

Pechorin’s manservant went out to meet him and 
informed him that they were going to put to at 
once; he handed him a box of cigars, received a 
few orders, and went off about his business. His 
master lit a cigar, yawned once or twice, and sat 
down on the bench on the other side of the .gate. 
I must now draw his portrait for you. 

He was of medium height. His shapely, slim 
figure and broad shoulders gave evidence of a 
strong constitution, capable of enduring all the 
hardships of a nomad life and changes of climates, 


82 A HERO OF OUR TIME 

'and of resisting with success both the demoraliz¬ 
ing effects of life in the Capital and the tempests 
of the soul. His velvet overcoat, which was 
covered with dust, was fastened by the two lower 
buttons only, and exposed to view linen of dazzling 
whiteness, which proved that he had the habits of 
a gentleman. His gloves, soiled by travel, seemed 
as though made expressly for his small, aristocratic 
hand, and when he took one glove off I was aston¬ 
ished at the thinness of his pale fingers. His gait 
was careless and indolent, but I noticed that he did 
not swing his arms—a sure sign of a certain secre¬ 
tiveness of character. These remarks, however, are 
the result of my own observations, and I have not 
the least desire to make you blindly believe in 
them. When he was in the act of seating himself 
on the bench his upright figure bent as if there was 
not a single bone in his back. The attitude of his 
whole body was expressive of a certain nervous 
weakness; he looked, as he sat, like one of Balzac’s 
thirty-year-old coquettes resting in her downy arm¬ 
chair after a fatiguing ball. From my first glance 
at his face I should not have supposed his age to be 
more than twenty-three, though afterwards I should 
have put it down as thirty. His smile had some¬ 
thing of a child-like quality. His skin pos¬ 
sessed a kind of feminine delicacy. His fair hair, 
naturally curly, most picturesquely outlined his pale 
and noble brow, on which it was only after lengthy 
observation that traces could be noticed of wrinkles, 
intersecting each other: probably they showed up 
much more distinctly in moments of anger or men¬ 
tal disturbance. Notwithstanding the light colour 
of his hair, his moustaches and eyebrows were black 
—a sign of breeding in a man, just as a black mane 


MAKSIM MAKSIMYCH 83 

and a black tail in a white horse. To complete the 
portrait, I will add that he had a slightly turned-up 
nose, teeth of dazzling whiteness, and brown eyes 
—I must say a few words more about his eyes. 

In the first place, they never laughed when he 
laughed. Have you not happened, yourself, to 
notice the same peculiarity in certain people? . . . 
It is a sign either of an evil disposition or of deep 
and constant grief. From behind his half-lowered 
eyelashes they shone with a kind of phosphores¬ 
cent gleam—if I may so express myself—which was 
not the reflection of a fervid soul or of a playful 
fancy, but a glitter like to that of smooth steel, 
blinding but cold. His glance—brief, but piercing 
and heavy—left the unpleasant impression of an in¬ 
discreet question and might have seemed insolent 
had it not been so unconcernedly tranquil. 

It may be that all these remarks came into my 
mind only after I had known some details of his 
life, and it may be, too, that his appearance would 
have produced an entirely different impression upon 
another; but, as you will not hear of him from any 
one except myself, you will have to rest content, 
nolens volens f with the description I have given. 
In conclusion, I will say that, speaking generally, 
he was a very good-looking man, and had one of 
those original types of countenance which are partic¬ 
ularly pleasing to women. 

The horses were already put to; now and then 
the bell jingled on the shaft-bow; 1 and the man¬ 
servant had twice gone up to Pechorin with the 
announcement that everything was ready, but still 
there was no sign of Maksim Maksimych. For¬ 
tunately Pechorin was sunk in thought as he gazed 

1 The duga —see p. 15. 


84 A HERO OF OUR TIME 

at the jagged, blue peaks of the Caucasus, and was 
apparently by no means in a hurry for the road. 

I went up to him. 

“If you care to wait a little longer,” I said, “you 
will have the pleasure of meeting an old friend.” 

“Oh, exactly!” he answered quickly. “They 
told me so yesterday. Where is he, though?” 

I looked in the direction of the square and there 
I descried Maksim Maksimych running as hard as 
he could. In a few minutes he was beside us. He 
was scarcely able to breathe; perspiration was roll¬ 
ing in large drops from his face; wet tufts of grey 
hair, escaping from under his cap, were glued to his 
forehead; his knees were shaking. . . . He was 
about to throw himself on Pechorin’s neck, but the 
latter, rather coldly, though with a smile of wel¬ 
come, stretched out his hand to him. For a mo¬ 
ment the staff-captain was petrified, but then eagerly 
seized Pechorin’s hand in both his own. He was 
still unable to speak. 

“How glad I am to see you, my dear Maksim 
Maksimych! Well, how are you?” said Pechorin. 

“And . . . thou . . . you?” 1 murmured the 
old man, with tears in his eyes. “What an age it 
is since I have seen you! . . . But where are you 
off to?” 

“I am going to Persia—and farther.” . . . 

“But surely not immediately? . . . Wait a little, 
my dear fellow! . . . Surely we are not going to 
part at once? . . . What a long time it is since we 
have seen each other!” . . . 

“It is time for me to go, Maksim Maksimych,” 
was the reply. 

1 “Thou” is the form of address used in speaking to an intimate 
friend, etc. Pechorin had used the more formal “you.” 


MAKSIM MAKSIMYCH 85 

“Good heavens, good heavens! But where are 
you going to in such a hurry? There was so much 
I should have liked to tell you! So much to ques¬ 
tion you about! . . . Well, what of yourself? 
Have you retired? . . . What? . . . How have 
you been getting along?” 

“Getting bored!” answered Pechorin, smiling. 

“You remember the life we led in the fortress? 
A splendid country for hunting! You were aw¬ 
fully fond of shooting, you know! . . . And 
Bela?”... 

Pechorin turned just the slightest bit pale and 
averted his head. 

“Yes, I remember!” he said, almost immediately 
forcing a yawn. 

Maksim Maksimych began to beg him to stay 
with him for a couple of hours or so longer. 

“We will have a splendid dinner,” he said. “I 
have two pheasants; and the Kakhetian wine is ex¬ 
cellent here . . . not what it is in Georgia, of 
course, but still of the best sort. . . . We will have 
a talk. . . . You will tell me about your life in 
Petersburg. . . . Eh?” . . . 

“In truth, there’s nothing for me to tell, dear 
Maksim Maksimych. . . . However, good-bye, it is 
time for me to be off. ... I am in a hurry. . . . 
I thank you for not having forgotten me,” he 
added, taking him by the hand. 

The old man knit his brows. He was grieved 
and angry, although he tried to hide his feelings. 

“Forget!” he growled. “I have not forgotten 
anything. . . . Well, God be with you! ... It 
is not like this that I thought we should meet.” 

“Come! That will do, that will do!” said Pech¬ 
orin, giving him a friendly embrace. “Is it pos- 


86 A HERO OF OUR TIME 

sible that I am not the same as I used to be? . . . 
What can we do? Every one must go his own 
way. . . . Are we ever going to meet again?— 
God only knows 1 ” 

While saying this he had taken his seat in the 
carriage, and the coachman was already gathering 
up the reins. 

“Wait, wait!” cried Maksim Maksimych sud¬ 
denly, holding on to the carriage door. “I was 
nearly forgetting altogether. Your papers were 
left with me, Grigori Aleksandrovich.- ... I drag 
them about everywhere I go. ... I thought I 
should find you in Georgia, but this is where 
it has pleased Heaven that we should meet. 
What’s to be done with them?” . . . 

“Whatever you like!” answered Pechorin. 
“Good-bye.” ... 

“So you are off to Persia? . . . But when 
will you return?” Maksim Maksimych cried after 
him. 

By this time the carriage was a long way off, 
but Pechorin made a sign with his hand which might 
be interpreted as meaning: 

“It is doubtful whether I shall return, and there 
is no reason, either, why I should!” 

The jingle of the bell and the clatter of the 
wheels along the flinty road had long ceased to 
be audible, but the poor old man still remained 
standing in the same place, deep in thought. 

“Yes,” he said at length, endeavouring to as¬ 
sume an air of indifference, although from time to 
time a tear of vexation glistened on his eyelashes. 
“Of course we were friends—well, but what are 
friends nowadays? . . . What could I be to him? 
I’m not rich; I’ve no rank; and, moreover, I’m not 


MAKSIM MAKSIMYCH 87 

at all his match in years!—See what a dandy he 
has become since he has been staying in Petersburg 
again! . . . What a carriage! . . . What a 
quantity of luggage! . . . And such a haughty 
manservant too!” . . . 

These words were pronounced with an ironical 
smile. 

“Tell me,” he continued, turning to me, “what 
do you think of it? Come, what the devil is he off 
to Persia for now? . . . Good Lord, it is ridic¬ 
ulous—ridiculous! . . , But I always knew that 
he was a fickle man, and one you could never rely 
on! . . . But, indeed, it is a pity that he should 
come to a bad end . . . yet it can’t be other¬ 
wise ! . . . I always did say that there is no good 
to be got out of a man who forgets his old 
friends!” ... 

Hereupon he turned away in order to hide his 
agitation and proceeded to walk about the court¬ 
yard, around his cart, pretending to be examining 
the wheels, whilst his eyes kept filling with tears 
every moment. 

“Maksim Maksimych,” I said, going up to him, 
“what papers are these that Pechorin left you?” 

“Goodness knows! Notes of some sort.” . . . 

“What will you do with them?” 

“What? I’ll have cartridges made of them.” 

“Hand them over to me instead.” 

He looked at me in surprise, growled something 
through his teeth, and began to rummage in his 
portmanteau. Out he drew a writing-book and 
threw it contemptuously on the ground; then a sec¬ 
ond—a third—a tenth shared # the same fate. 
There was something childish in his vexation, and it 
struck me as ridiculous and pitiable. . . . 


88 A HERO OF OUR TIME 

“Here they are,” he said. “I congratulate you 
on your find!” . . . 

“And I may do anything I like with them?” 

“Yes, print them in the newspapers, if you like. 
What is it to me? Am I a friend or relation of 
his? It is true that for a long time we lived un¬ 
der one roof . . . but aren’t there plenty of peo¬ 
ple with whom I have lived?” . . . 

I seized the papers and lost no time in carry¬ 
ing them away, fearing that the staff-captain might 
repent his action. Soon somebody came to tell us 
that the “Adventure” would set off in an hour’s 
time. I ordered the horses to be put to. 

I had already put my cap on when the staff- 
captain entered the room. Apparently he had not 
got ready for departure. His manner was some¬ 
what cold and constrained. 

“You are not going, then, Maksim Maksim- 
ych?” 

“No, sir!” 

“But why not?” 

“Well, I have not seen the Commandant yet, 
and I have to deliver some Government things.” 

“But you did go, you know.” 

“I did, of course,” he stammered, “but he was 
not at home . . . and I did not wait.” 

I understood. For the first time in his life, 
probably,--the poor old man had, to speak by the 
book, thrown aside official business ‘for the sake of 
his personal requirements’ . . . and how he had 
been rewarded! 

“I am very sorry, Maksim Maksimych, very 
sorry indeed,” I said, “that we must part sooner 
than necessary.” 

“What should we rough old men be thinking 


MAKSIM MAKSIMYCH 89 

of to run after you? You young men are fash¬ 
ionable and proud: under the Circassian bullets you 
are friendly enough with us . . . but when you 
meet us afterwards you are ashamed even to give 
us your hand!” 

“I have not deserved these reproaches, Maksim 
Maksimych.” 

“Well, but you know I’m quite right. How¬ 
ever, I wish you all good luck and a pleasant 
journey.” 

We took a rather cold farewell of each other. 
The kind-hearted Maksim Maksimych had become 
the obstinate, cantankerous staff-captain! And 
why? Because Pechorin, through absent-minded¬ 
ness or from some other cause, had extended his 
hand to him when Maksim Maksimych was going 
to throw himself on his neck! Sad it is to see 
when a young man loses his best hopes and dreams, 
when from before his eyes is withdrawn the rose- 
hued veil through which he has looked upon the 
deeds and feelings of mankind; although there is 
the hope that the old illusions will be replaced by 
new ones, none the less evanescent, but, on the 
other hand, none the less sweet. But wherewith 
can they be replaced when one is at the age of 
Maksim Maksimych? Do what you will, the 
heart hardens and the soul shrinks in upon itself. 

I departed—alone. 




FOREWORD TO BOOKS III, IV, AND V 






Foreword to Books III , IVand V 
Concerning Pechorin ’s Diary 

I learned not long ago that Pechorin had died 
on his way back from Persia. The news afforded 
me great delight; it gave me the right to print these 
notes; and I have taken advantage of the oppor¬ 
tunity of putting my name at the head of another 
person’s productions. Heaven grant that my 
readers may not punish me for such an innocent 
deception! 

I must now give some explanation of the rea¬ 
sons which have induced me to betray to the public 
the inmost secrets of a man whom I never knew. 
If I had even been his friend, well and good: the 
artful indiscretion of the true friend is intelligible 
to everybody; but I only saw Pechorin once in my 
life—on the high-road—and, consequently, I can¬ 
not cherish towards him that inexplicable hatred, 
which, hiding its face under the mask of friend¬ 
ship, awaits but the death or misfortune of the be¬ 
loved object to burst over its head in a storm of re¬ 
proaches, admonitions, scoffs and regrets. 

On reading over these notes, I have become con¬ 
vinced of the sincerity of the man who has so un¬ 
sparingly exposed to view his own weaknesses and 
vices. The history of a man’s soul, even the pet¬ 
tiest soul, is hardly less interesting and useful than 
the history of a whole people; especially when the 
93 


94 A HERO OF OUR TIME 

former is the result of the observations of a ma¬ 
ture mind upon itself, and has been written without 
any egoistical desire of arousing sympathy or as¬ 
tonishment. Rousseau’s Confessions has precisely 
this defect—he read it to his friends. 

And, so, it is nothing but the desire to be useful 
that has constrained me to print fragments of this 
diary which fell into my hands by chance. Al¬ 
though I have altered all the proper names, those 
who are mentioned in it will probably recognize 
themselves, and, it may be, will find some justifica¬ 
tion for actions for which they have hitherto 
blamed a man who has ceased henceforth to have 
anything in common with this world. We almost 
always excuse that which we understand. 

I have inserted in this book only those portions 
of the diary which refer to Pechorin’s sojourn in 
the Caucasus. There still remains in my hands a 
thick writing-book in which he tells the story of 
his whole life. Some time or other that, too, will 
present itself before the tribunal of the world, but, 
for many and weighty reasons, I do not venture to 
take such a responsibility upon myself now. 

Possibly some readers would like to know my 
own opinion of Pechorin’s character. My answer 
is: the title of this book. “But that is malicious 
irony!” they will say. ... I know not. 


BOOK THREE 

THE FIRST EXTRACT FROM 
PECHORIN’S DIARY 


TAMAN 


/ 


THE FIRST EXTRACT FROM 
PECHORIN’S DIARY 


Taman 

Taman is the nastiest little hole of all the sea¬ 
ports of Russia. I was all but starved there, to 
say nothing of having a narrow escape of being 
drowned. 

I arrived late at night by the post-car. The 
driver stopped the tired troika 1 at the gate of the 
only stone-built house that stood at the entrance 
to the town. The sentry, a Cossack from the 
Black Sea, hearing the jingle of the bell, cried out, 
sleepily, in his barbarous voice, “Who goes there?” 
An under-officer of Cossacks and a headborough 2 
came out. I explained that I was an officer bound 
for the active-service detachment on Government 
business, and I proceeded to demand official quar¬ 
ters. The headborough conducted us round the 
town. Whatever hut we drove up to we found to 
be occupied. The weather was cold; I had not 
slept for three nights; I was tired out, and I be¬ 
gan to lose my temper. 

“Take me somewhere or other, you scoundrel!” 
I cried; “to the devil himself, so long as there’s 
a place to put up at!” 

“There is one other lodging,” answered the 

1 Team of three horses abreast. 

2 Desyatnik, a superintendent of ten (men or huts), i. e. an 
officer like the old English tithing-man or headborough. 

97 


98 A HERO OF OUR TIME 

headborough, scratching his head. “Only you 
won’t like it, sir. It is uncanny!” 

Failing to grasp the exact signification of the 
last phrase, I ordered him to go on, and, after a 
lengthy peregrination through muddy byways, at 
the sides of which I could see nothing but old 
fences, we drove up to a small cabin, right on the 
shore of the sea. 

The full moon was shining on the little reed- 
thatched roof and the white walls of my new dwell¬ 
ing. In the courtyard, which was surrounded by 
a wall of rubble-stone, there stood another miser¬ 
able hovel, smaller and older than the first and all 
askew. The shore descended precipitously to the 
sea, almost from its very walls, and down below, 
with incessant murmur, plashed the dark-blue 
waves. The moon gazed softly upon the watery 
element, restless but obedient to it, and I was able 
by its light to distinguish two ships lying at some 
distance from the shore, their black rigging mo¬ 
tionless and standing out, like cobwebs, against the 
pale line of the horizon. 

“There are vessels in the harbour,” I said to 
myself. “Tomorrow I will set out for Gelenjik.” 

I had with me, in the capacity of soldier-servant, 
a Cossack of the frontier army. Ordering him to 
take down the portmanteau and dismiss the driver, 
I began to call the master of the house. No an¬ 
swer! I knocked—all was silent within! . . . 
What could it mean? At length a boy of about 
fourteen crept out from the hall. 

“Where is the master?” 

“There isn’t one.” 

“What! No master?” 

“None!” 


99 


TAMAN 

“And the mistress?” 

‘‘She has gone off to the village.” 

“Who will open the door for me, then?” I 
said, giving it a kick. 

The door opened of its own accord, and a breath 
of moisture-laden air was wafted from the hut. 
I struck a lucifer match and held it to the boy’s 
face. It lit up two white eyes. He was totally 
blind, obviously so from birth. He stood stock¬ 
still before me, and I began to examine his fea¬ 
tures. 

I confess that I have a violent prejudice against 
all blind, one-eyed, deaf, dumb, legless, armless, 
hunchbacked, and such-like people. I have ob¬ 
served that there is always a certain strange con¬ 
nection between a man’s exterior and his soul; as, 
if when the body loses a limb, the soul also loses 
some power of feeling. 

And so I began to examine the blind boy’s face. 
But what could be read upon a face from which 
the eyes were missing? . . . For a long time I 
gazed at him with involuntary compassion, when 
suddenly a scarcely perceptible smile flitted over 
his thin lips, producing, I know not why, a most un¬ 
pleasant impression upon me. I began to feel a 
suspicion that the blind boy was not so blind as he 
appeared to be. In vain I endeavoured to con¬ 
vince myself that it was impossible to counterfeit 
cataracts; and besides, what reason could there be 
for doing such a thing? But I could not help my 
suspicions. I am easily swayed by prejudice. . . . 

“You are the master’s son?” I asked at length. 
“No.” 

“Who are you, then?” 

“An orphan—a poor boy.” 


100 A HERO OF OUR TIME 

“Has the mistress any children?” 

“No, her daughter ran away and crossed the 
sea with a Tartar.” 

“What sort of a Tartar?” 

“The devil only knows! A Crimean Tartar, a 
boatman from Kerch.” 

I entered the hut. Its whole furniture consisted 
of two benches and a table, together with an enor¬ 
mous chest beside the stove. There was not a single 
ikon to be seen on the wall—a bad sign! The 
sea-wind burst in through the broken window-pane. 
I drew a wax candle-end from my portmanteau, lit 
it, and began to put my things out. My sabre and 
gun I placed in a corner, my pistols I laid on the 
table. I spread my felt cloak out on one bench, 
and the Cossack his on the other. In ten minutes 
the latter was snoring, but I could not go to sleep 
—the image of the boy with the white eyes kept 
hovering before me in the dark. 

About an hour passed thus. The moon shone 
in at the window and its rays played along the 
earthen floor of the hut. Suddenly a shadow 
flitted across the bright strip of moonshine which 
intersected the floor. I raised myself up a little 
and glanced out of the window. Again somebody 
ran by it and disappeared—goodness knows 
where! It seemed impossible for any one to de¬ 
scend the steep cliff overhanging the shore, but that 
was the only thing that could have happened. I 
rose, threw on my tunic, girded on a dagger, and 
with the utmost quietness went out of the hut. 
The blind boy was coming towards me. I hid by 
the fence, and he passed by me with a sure but 
cautious step. He was carrying a parcel under 


TAMAN ioi 

his arm. He turned towards the harbour and be¬ 
gan to descend a steep and narrow path. 

/ On that day the dumb will cry out and the 
blind will see,” I said to myself, following him just 
close enough to keep him in sight. 

Meanwhile the moon was becoming overcast by 
clouds and a mist had risen upon the sea. The 
lantern alight in the stern of a ship close at hand 
was scarcely visible through the mist, and by the 
shore there glimmered the foam of the waves, 
which every moment threatened to submerge it. 
Descending with difficulty, I stole along the steep 
declivity, and all at once I saw the blind boy come 
to a standstill and then turn down to the right. 
He walked so close to the water’s edge that it 
seemed as if the waves would straightway seize him 
and carry him off. But, judging by the confidence 
with which he stepped from rock to rock and 
avoided the water-channels, this was evidently not 
the first time that he had made that journey. Fi¬ 
nally he stopped, as though listening for something, 
squatted down upon the ground, and laid the parcel 
beside him. Concealing myself behind a project¬ 
ing rock on the shore, I kept watch on his move¬ 
ments. After a few minutes a white figure made 
its appearance from the opposite direction. It 
came up to the blind boy and sat down beside him. 
At times the wind wafted their conversation to me. 

“Well?” said a woman’s voice. “The storm is 
violent; Yanko will not be here.” 

“Yanko is not afraid of the storm!” the other 
replied. 

“The mist is thickening,” rejoined the woman’s 
voice, sadness in its tone. 




102 A HERO OF OUR TIME 

“In the mist it is all the easier to slip past the 
guardships,” was the answer. 

“And if he is drowned?” 

“Well, what then? On Sunday you won’t have 
a new ribbon to go to church in.” 

An interval of silence followed. One thing, 
however, struck me—in talking to me the blind 
boy spoke in the Little Russian dialect, but now 
he was expressing himself in pure Russian. 

“You see, I am right!” the blind boy went on, 
clapping his hands. “Yanko is not afraid of sea, 
nor winds, nor mist, nor coastguards! Just lis¬ 
ten ! That is not the water plashing, you can’t 
deceive me—it is his long oars.” 

The woman sprang up and began anxiously to 
gaze into the distance. 

“You are raving!” she said. “I cannot see any¬ 
thing.” 

I confess that, much as I tried to make out in 
the distance something resembling a boat, my ef¬ 
forts were unsuccessful. About ten minutes 
passed thus, when a black speck appeared between 
the mountains of the waves! At one time it grew 
larger, at another smaller. Slowly rising upon the 
crests of the waves and swiftly descending from 
them, the boat drew near to the shore. 

“He must be a brave sailor,” I thought, “to 
have determined to cross the twenty versts of 
strait on a night like this, and he must have had a 
weighty reason for doing so.” 

Reflecting thus, I gazed with an involuntary 
beating of the heart at the poor boat. It dived 
like a duck, and then, with rapidly swinging oars 
—like wings—it sprang forth from the abyss amid 
the splashes of the foam. “Ah!” I thought, “it 


TAMAN 103 

wiil be dashed against the shore with all its force 
and . broken to pieces!” But it turned aside 
adroitly and leaped unharmed into a little creek. 
Out of it stepped a man of medium height, wear- 
mg a Tartar sheepskin cap. He waved his hand, 
and all three set to work to drag something out of 
the boat. The cargo was so large that, to this 
day, I cannot understand how it was that the boat 
did not sink. 

Each of them shouldered a bundle, and they set 
off along the shore, and I soon lost sight of them. 
I had to return home; but I confess I was rendered 
uneasy by all these strange happenings, and I found 
it hard to await the morning. 

My Cossack was very much astonished when, 
on waking up, he saw me fully dressed. I did not, 
however, tell him the reason. For some time I 
stood at the window, gazing admiringly at the blue 
sky all studded with wisps of cloud, and at the dis¬ 
tant shore of the Crimea, stretching out in a lilac- 
coloured streak and ending in a cliff, on the sum¬ 
mit of which the white tower of the lighthouse 
was gleaming. Then I betook myself to the for¬ 
tress, Phanagoriya, in order to ascertain from the 
Commandant at what hour I should depart for 
Gelenjik. 

But the Commandant, alas! could not give me 
any definite information. The vessels lying in the 
harbour were all either guard-ships or merchant- 
vessels which had not yet even begun to take in 
lading. 

“Maybe in about three or four days’ time a mail- 
boat will come in,” said the Commandant, “and 
then we shall see.” 

I returned home sulky and wrathful. My Cos- 


104 A HERO OF OUR TIME 

sack met me at the door with a frightened counte¬ 
nance. 

“Things are looking bad, sir!” he said. 

“Yes, my friend; goodness only knows when we 
shall get away!” 

Hereupon he became still more uneasy, and, 
bending towards me, he said in a whisper: 

“It is uncanny here! I met an under-officer 
from the Black Sea today—he’s an acquaintance of 
mine—he was in my detachment last year. When 
I told him where we were staying, he said, ‘That 
place is uncanny, old fellow; they’re wicked peo¬ 
ple there!’ . . . And, indeed, what sort of a blind 
boy is that? He goes everywhere alone, to fetch 
water and to buy bread at the bazaar. It is evi¬ 
dent they have become accustomed to that sort of 
thing here.” 

“Well, what then? Tell me, though, has the 
mistress of the place put in an appearance?” 

“During your absence today, an old woman and 
her daughter arrived.” 

“What daughter? She has no daughter!” 

“Goodness knows who it can be if it isn’t her 
daughter; but the old woman is sitting over there 
in the hut now.” 

I entered the hovel. A blazing fire was burning 
in the stove, and they were cooking a dinner which 
struck me as being a rather luxurious one for poor 
people. To all my questions the old woman re¬ 
plied that she was deaf and could not hear me. 
There was nothing to be got out of her. I turned 
to the blind boy who was sitting in front of the 
stove, putting twigs into the fire. 

“Now, then, you little blind devil,” I said, tak- 


TAMAN 105 

ing him by the ear. “Tell me, where were you 
roaming with the bundle last night, eh?” 

The blind boy suddenly burst out weeping, 
shrieking and wailing. 

“Where did I go? I did not go anywhere. . . . 
With the bundle? . . . What bundle?” 

This time the old woman heard, and she began 
to mutter: 

“Hark at them plotting, and against a poor boy 
too! What are you touching him for? What 
has he done to you?” 

I had enough of it, and went out, firmly resolved 
to find the key to the riddle. 

I wrapped myself up in my felt cloak and, sitting 
down on a rock by the fence, gazed into the dis¬ 
tance. Before me stretched the sea, agitated by the 
storm of the previous night, and its monotonous 
roar, like the murmur of a town over which slumber 
is beginning to creep, recalled bygone years to my 
mind, and transported my thoughts northward to 
our cold Capital. Agitated by my recollections, I 
became oblivious of my surroundings. 

About an hour passed thus, perhaps even longer. 
Suddenly something resembling a song struck upon 
my ear. It was a song, and the voice was a wom¬ 
an’s, young and fresh—but, where was it coming 
from? ... I listened; it was a harmonious melody 
—now long-drawn-out and plaintive, now swift and 
lively. I looked around me—there was nobody to 
be seen. I listened again—the sounds seemed to 
be falling from the sky. I raised my eyes. On the 
roof of my cabin was standing a young girl in a 
striped dress and with her hair hanging loose—a 
regular water-nymph. Shading her eyes from the 


106 A HERO OF OUR TIME 

sun’s rays with the palm of her hand, she was gaz¬ 
ing intently into the distance. At one time, she 
would laugh and talk to herself, at another, she 
would strike up her song anew. 

I have retained that song in my memory, word 
for word : 


At their own free will 
They seem to wander 
O'er the green sea yonder. 
Those ships, as still 
They are onward going, 
With white sails flowing . 

And among those ships 
My eye can mark 
My own dear barque: 

By two oars guided 
(All unprovided 
With sails) it slips. 

The storm-wind raves: 

And the old ships — see! 
With wings spread free. 
Over the waves 
They scatter and flee! 

The sea 1 will hail 
With obeisance deep: 

“Thou base one, hark! 

Thou must not fail 
My little barque 
From harm to keep!” 

For lo! *tis bearing 
Most precious gear. 

And brave and daring 
The arms that steer 


io7 


TAMAN 

Within the dark 

My little barque. 

Involuntarily the thought occurred to me that I 
had heard the same voice the night before. I re¬ 
flected for a moment, and when I looked up at the 
roof again there was no girl to be seen. Suddenly 
she darted past me, with another song on her lips, 
and, snapping her fingers, she ran up to the old 
woman. Thereupon a quarrel arose between them. 
The old woman grew angry, and the girl laughed 
loudly. . And then I saw my Undine running and 
gambolling again. She came up to where I was, 
stopped, and gazed fixedly into my face as if sur¬ 
prised at my presence. Then she turned carelessly 
away and went quietly towards the harbour. But 
this was not all. The whole day she kept hovering 
around my lodging, singing and gambolling without 
a moment’s interruption. Strange creature! 
There was not the slightest sign of insanity in her 
face; on the contrary, her eyes, which were continu¬ 
ally resting upon me, were bright and piercing. 
Moreover, they seemed to be endowed with a cer¬ 
tain magnetic power, and each time they looked at 
me they appeared to be expecting a question. But 
I had only to open my lips to speak, and away she 
would run, with a sly smile. 

Certainly never before had I seen a woman like 
her. She was by no means beautiful; but, as in 
other matters, I have my own prepossessions on the 
subject of beauty. There was a good deal of breed¬ 
ing in her. . . . Breeding in women, as in horses, is 
a great thing: a discovery, the credit of which be¬ 
longs to young France. It—that is to say, breed¬ 
ing, not young France—is chiefly to be detected in 


io8 A HERO OF OUR TIME 

the gait, in the hands and feet; the nose, in partic¬ 
ular, is of the greatest significance. In Russia a 
straight nose is rarer than a small foot. 

My songstress appeared to be not more than 
eighteen years of age. The unusual suppleness of 
her figure, the characteristic and original way she 
had of inclining her head, her long, light-brown hair, 
the golden sheen of her slightly sunburnt neck and 
shoulders, and especially her straight nose—all 
these held me fascinated. Although in her side¬ 
long glances I could read a certain wildness and dis¬ 
dain, although in her smile there was a certain 
vagueness, yet—such is the force of predilections— 
that straight nose of hers drove me crazy. I fan¬ 
cied that I had found Goethe’s Mignon—that queer 
creature of his German imagination. And, indeed, 
there was a good deal of similarity between them; 
the same rapid transitions from the utmost restless¬ 
ness to complete immobility, the same enigmatical 
speeches, the same gambols, the same strange songs. 

Towards evening I stopped her at the door and 
entered into the following conversation with her. 

“Tell me, my beauty,” I asked, “what were you 
doing on the roof today?” 

“I was looking to see from what direction the 
wind was blowing.” 

“What did you want to know for?” 

“Whence the wind blows comes happiness.” 

“Well? Were you invoking happiness with your 
song?” 

“Where there is singing there is also happiness.” 

“But what if your song were to bring you sor¬ 
row?” 

“Well, what then? Where things won’t be bet- 


TAMAN 109 

ter, they will be worse; and from bad to good again 
is not far.” 

“And who taught you that song?” 

Nobody taught me; it comes into my head 
and I sing; whoever is to hear it, he will hear it, 
and whoever ought not to hear it, he will not under¬ 
stand it.” 

“What is your name, my songstress?” 

“He who baptized me knows.” 

“And who baptized you?” 

“How should I know?” 

“What a secretive girl you are! But look here, 
I have learned something about you”—she neither 
changed countenance nor moved her lips, as though 
my discovery was of no concern to her—“I have 
learned that you went to the shore last night.” 

And, thereupon, I very gravely retailed to her all 
that I had seen, thinking that I should embarrass 
her. Not a bit of it! She burst out laughing 
heartily. 

“You have seen much, but know little; and what 
you do know, see that you keep it under lock and 
key.” 

“But supposing, now, I was to take it into 
my head to inform the Commandant?” and here 
I assumed a very serious, not to say stern, 
demeanour. 

She gave a sudden spring, began to sing, and hid 
herself like a bird frightened out of a thicket. My 
last words were altogether out of place. I had no 
suspicion then how momentous they were, but after¬ 
wards I had occasion to rue them. 

As soon as the dusk of evening fell, I ordered 
the Cossack to heat the teapot, campaign fashion. 


Iio A HERO OF OUR TIME 

I lighted a candle and sat down by the table, smok¬ 
ing my travelling-pipe. I was just about to finish 
my second tumbler of tea when suddenly the door 
creaked and I heard behind me the sound of foot¬ 
steps and the light rustle of a dress. I started and 
turned round. 

It was she—my Undine. Softly and without say¬ 
ing a word she sat down opposite to me and fixed 
her eyes upon me. Her glance seemed wondrously 
tender, I know not why; it reminded me of one of 
those glances which, in years gone by, so despotically 
played with my life. She seemed to be waiting for 
a question, but I kept silence, filled with an inexpli¬ 
cable sense of embarrassment. Mental agitation 
was evinced by the dull pallor which overspread her 
countenance; her hand, which I noticed was trem¬ 
bling slightly, moved aimlessly about the table. At 
one time her breast heaved, and at another she 
seemed to be holding her breath. This little com¬ 
edy was beginning to pall upon me, and I was about 
to break the silence in a most prosaic manner, that 
is, by offering her a glass of tea; when suddenly, 
springing up, she threw her arms around my neck, 
and I felt her moist, fiery lips pressed upon mine. 
Darkness came before my eyes, my head began to 
swim. I embraced her with the whole strength of 
youthful passion. But, like a snake, she glided 
from between my arms, whispering in my ear as 
she did so: 

“Tonight, when every one is asleep, go out to 
the shore.” 

Like an arrow she sprang from the room. 

In the hall she upset the teapot and a candle 
which was standing on the floor. 

“Little devil!” cried the Cossack, who had taken 


TAMAN hi 

up his position on the straw and had contemplated 
warming himself with the remains of the tea. 

It was only then that I recovered my senses. 

In about two hours’ time, when all had grown 
silent in the harbour, I awakened my Cossack. 

“If I fire a pistol,” I said, “run to the shore.” 

He stared open-eyed and answered mechan¬ 
ically: 

“Very well, sir.” 

I stuffed a pistol in my belt and went out. She 
was waiting for me at the edge of the cliff. Her 
attire was more than light, and a small kerchief 
girded her supple waist. 

“Follow me!” she said, taking me by the hand, 
and we began to descend. 

I cannot understand how it was that I did not 
break my neck. Down below we turned to the 
right and proceeded to take the path along which 
I had followed the blind boy the evening before. 
The moon had not yet risen, and only two little 
stars, like two guardian lighthouses, were twin¬ 
kling in the dark-blue vault of heaven. The heavy 
waves, with measured and even motion, rolled one 
after the other, scarcely lifting the solitary boat 
which was moored to the shore. 

“Let us get into the boat,” said my companion. 

I hesitated. I am no lover of sentimental trips 
on the sea; but this was not the time to draw back. 
She leapt into the boat, and I after her; and I had 
not time to recover my wits before I observed that 
we were adrift. 

“What is the meaning of this ?” I said angrily. 

“It means,” she answered, seating me on the 
bench and throwing her arms around my waist, “it 
means that I love you!” . . . 


112 A HERO OF OUR TIME 

Her cheek was pressed close to mine, and I felt 
her burning breath upon my face. Suddenly some¬ 
thing fell noisily into the water. I clutched at my 
belt—my pistol was gone! Ah, now a terrible 
suspicion crept into my soul, and the blood rushed 
to my head! I looked round. We were about 
fifty fathoms from the shore, and I could not swim 
a stroke! I tried to thrust her away from me, but 
she clung like a cat to my clothes, and suddenly a 
violent wrench all but threw me into the sea. The 
boat rocked, but I righted myself, and a desperate 
struggle began. 

Fury lent me strength, but I soon found that I 
was no match for my opponent in point of 
agility. . . . 

“What do you want?” I cried, firmly squeezing 
her little hands. 

Her fingers crunched, but her serpent-like nature 
bore up against the torture, and she did not utter a 
cry. 

“You saw us,” she answered. “You will tell on 
us.” 

And, with a supernatural effort, she flung me on 
to the side of the boat; we both hung half over¬ 
board; her hair touched the water. The decisive 
moment had come. I planted my knee against the 
bottom of the boat, caught her by the tresses with 
one hand and by the throat with the other; she let 
go my clothes, and, in an instant I had thrown her 
into the waves. 

It was now rather dark; once or twice her head 
appeared for an instant amidst the sea foam, and 
I saw no more of her. 

I found the half of an old oar at the bottom of 
the boat, and somehow or other, after lengthy 


TAMAN 113 

efforts, I made fast to the harbour. Making my 
way along the shore towards my hut, I involun¬ 
tarily gazed in the direction of the spot where, on 
the previous night, the blind boy had awaited the 
nocturnal mariner. The moon was already roll¬ 
ing through the sky, and it seemed to me that some¬ 
body in white was sitting on the shore. Spurred 
by curiosity, I crept up and crouched down in the 
grass on the top of the cliff. By thrusting my head 
out a little way I was able to get a good view of 
everything that was happening down below, and I 
was not very much astonished, but almost rejoiced, 
when I recognized my water-nymph. She was 
wringing the seafoam from her long hair. Her 
wet garment outlined her supple figure and her 
high bosom. 

Soon a boat appeared in the distance; it drew 
near rapidly; and, as on the night before, a man in 
a Tartar cap stepped out of it, but he now had his 
hair cropped round in the Cossack fashion, and a 
large knife was sticking out behind his leather belt. 

“Y,anko,” the girl said, “all is lost!” 

Then their conversation continued, but so softly 
that I could not catch a word of it. 

“But where is the blind boy?” said Yanko at 
last, raising his voice. 

“I have told him to come,” was the reply. 

After a few minutes the blind boy appeared, 
dragging on his back a sack, which they placed in 
the boat. 

“Listen!” said Yanko to the blind boy. “Guard 
that place! You know where I mean? There 
are valuable goods there. Tell”—I could not 
catch the name—“that I am no longer his servant. 
Things have gone badly. He will see me no more. 


n 4 A HERO OF OUR TIME 

It is dangerous now. I will go seek work in 
another place, and he will never be able to find 
another dare-devil like me. Tell him also that if 
he had paid me a little better for my labours, I 
would not have forsaken him. For me there is a 
way anywhere, if only the wind blows and the sea 
roars.” 

After a short silence Yanko continued: 

“She is coming with me. It is impossible for 
her to remain here. Tell the old woman that it 
is time for her to die; she has been here a long 
time, and the line must be drawn somewhere. As 
for us, she will never see us any more.” 

“And I?” said the blind boy in a plaintive voice. 

“What use have I for you?” was the answer. 

In the meantime my Undine had sprung into the 
boat. She beckoned to her companion with her 
hand. He placed something in the blind boy’s 
hand and added: 

“There, buy yourself some gingerbreads.” 

“Is this all?” said the blind boy. 

“Well, here is some more.” 

The money fell and jingled as it struck the rock. 

The blind boy did not pick it up. Yanko took 
his seat in the boat; the wind was blowing from 
the shore; they hoisted the little sail and sped 
rapidly away. For a long time the white sail 
gleamed in the moonlight amid the dark waves. 
Still the blind boy remained seated upon the shore, 
and then I heard something which sounded like sob¬ 
bing. The blind boy was, in fact, weeping, and 
for a long, long time his tears flowed. ... I grew 
heavy-hearted. For what reason should fate have 
thrown me into the peaceful circle of honourable 
smugglersf Like a stone cast into a smooth well, 


TAMAN 115 

I had disturbed their quietude, and I barely es¬ 
caped going to the bottom like a stone. 

I returned home. In the hall the burnt-out 
candle was spluttering on a wooden platter, and 
my Cossack, contrary to orders, was fast asleep, 
with his gun held in both hands. I left him at 
rest, took the candle, and entered the hut. Alas! 
my cashbox, my sabre with the silver chasing, my 
Daghestan dagger—the gift of a friend—all had 
vanished! It was then that I guessed what ar¬ 
ticles the cursed blind boy had been dragging along. 
Roughly shaking the Cossack, I woke him up, rated 
him, and lost my temper. But what was the good 
of that? And would it not have been ridiculous to 
complain to the authorities that I had been robbed 
by a blind boy and all but drowned by an eighteen- 
year-old girl? 

Thank heaven an opportunity of getting away 
presented itself in the morning, and I left Taman. 

What became of the old woman and the poor 
blind boy I know not. And, besides, what are the 
joys and sorrows of mankind to me—me, a travel¬ 
ling officer, and one, moreover, with an order for 
post-horses on Government business? 





BOOK FOUR 

THE SECOND EXTRACT FROM 
PECHORIN’S DIARY 


THE FATALIST 




















* t 



THE SECOND EXTRACT FROM 
PECHORIN’S DIARY 


The Fatalist 

I once happened to spend a couple of weeks in a 
Cossack village on our left flank. A battalion of 
infantry was stationed there; and it was the custom 
of the officers to meet at each other’s quarters in 
turn and to play cards in the evening. 

On one occasion—it was at Major S-’s— 

finding our game of Boston not sufficiently absorb¬ 
ing, we threw the cards under the table and sat on 
for a long time, talking. The conversation, for 
once in a way, was interesting. The subject was 
the Mussulman tradition that a man’s fate is writ¬ 
ten in heaven, and we discussed the fact that it was 
gaining many votaries, even amongst our own 
countrymen. Each of us related various extraor¬ 
dinary occurrences, pro or contra. 

“What you have been saying, gentlemen, proves 
nothing,” said the old major. “I presume there 
is not one of you who has actually been a witness 
of the strange events which you are citing in sup¬ 
port of your opinions?” 

“Not one, of course,” said many of the guests. 
“But we have heard of them from trustworthy 
people.” ... 

“It is all nonsense!” some one said. “Where 
are the trustworthy people who have seen the 
Register in which the appointed hour of our death 





120 A HERO OF OUR TIME 

is recorded? . . . And if predestination really 
exists, why are free will and reason granted us? 
Why are we obliged to render an account of our 
actions?’’ 

At that moment an officer who was sitting in a 
corner of the room stood up, and, coming slowly 
to the table, surveyed us all with a quiet and sol¬ 
emn glance. He was a native of Servia, as was 
evident from his name. 

The outward appearance of Lieutenant Vulich 
was quite in keeping with his character. His 
height, swarthy complexion, black hair, piercing 
black eyes, large but straight nose—an attribute of 
his nation—and the cold and melancholy smile 
which ever hovered around his lips, all seemed to 
concur in lending him the appearance of a man 
apart, incapable of reciprocating the thoughts and 
passions of those whom fate gave him for com¬ 
panions. 

He was brave; talked little, but sharply; con¬ 
fided his thoughts and family secrets to no one; 
drank hardly a drop of wine; and never dangled 
after the young Cossack girls, whose charm it is 
difficult to realize without having seen them. It 
was said, however, that the colonel’s wife was not 
indifferent to those expressive eyes of his; but he 
was seriously angry if any hint on the subject was 
made. 

There was only one passion which he did not con¬ 
ceal—the passion for gambling. At the green 
table he would become oblivious of everything. 
He usually lost, but his constant ill success only 
aroused his obstinacy. It was related that, on one 
occasion, during a nocturnal expedition, he was 
keeping the bank on a pillow, and had a terrific run 


THE FATALIST izi 

of luck. Suddenly shots rang out. The alarm 
was sounded; all but Vulich jumped up and rushed 
to arms. 

“Stake, va banque! y> he cried to one of the most 
ardent gamblers. 

“Seven,” the latter answered as he hurried off. 

Notwithstanding the general confusion, Vulich 
calmly finished the deal—seven was the card. 

By the time he reached the cordon a violent fu¬ 
sillade was in progress. Vulich did not trouble 
himself about the bullets or the sabres of the Che- 
chenes, but sought for the lucky gambler. 

“Seven it was!” he cried out, as at length he 
perceived him in the cordon of skirmishers who 
were beginning to dislodge the enemy from the 
wood; and going up to him, he drew out his purse 
and pocket-book and handed them to the winner, 
notwithstanding the latter’s objections on the score 
of the inconvenience of the payment. That un¬ 
pleasant duty discharged, Vulich dashed forward, 
carried the soldiers along after him, and, to the 
very end of the affair, fought the Chechenes with 
the utmost coolness. 

When Lieutenant Vulich came up to the table, 
we all became silent, expecting to hear, as usual, 
something original. 

“Gentlemen!” he said—and his voice was quiet 
though lower in tone than usual—“gentlemen, 
what is the good of futile discussions? You wish 
for proofs? I propose that we try the experiment 
on ourselves: whether a man can of his own accord 
dispose of his life, or whether the fateful moment 
is appointed beforehand for each of us. Who is 
agreeable ?” 

“Not I. Not I,” came from all sides. “There’s 


122 A HERO OF OUR TIME 

a queer fellow for you! He does get strange 
ideas into his head!” . . . 

“I propose a wager,” I said in jest. 

“What sort of wager?” 

“I maintain that there is no such thing as pre¬ 
destination,” I said, scattering on the table a score 
or so of ducats—all I had in my pocket. 

“Done,” answered Vulich in a hollow voice. 
“Major, you will be judge. Here are fifteen duc¬ 
ats, the remaining five you owe me, kindly add 
them to the others.” 

“Very well,” said the major; “though, indeed, 
I do not understand what is the question at issue 
and how you will decide it!” 

Without a word Vulich went into the major’s 
bedroom, and we followed him. He went up to 
the wall on which the major’s weapons were hang¬ 
ing, and took down at random one of the pistols 
—of which there were several of different cali¬ 
bres. We were still in the dark as to what he 
meant to do. But, when he cocked the pistol and 
sprinkled powder in the pan, several of the officers, 
crying out in spite of themselves, seized him by the 
arms. 

“What are you going to do?” they exclaimed. 
“This is madness!” 

“Gentlemen!” he said slowly, disengaging his 
arm. “Who would like to pay twenty ducats for 
me?” 

They were silent and drew away. 

Vulich went into the other room and sat by the 
table; we all followed him. With a sign he in¬ 
vited us to sit round him. We obeyed in silence 
—at that moment he had acquired a certain mys¬ 
terious authority over us. I stared fixedly into his 


THE FATALIST 123 

face; but he met my scrutinizing gaze with a quiet 
and steady glance, and his pallid lips smiled. But, 
notwithstanding his composure, it seemed to me 
that I could read the stamp of death upon his pale 
countenance. I have noticed—and many old sol¬ 
diers have corroborated my observation—that a 
man who is to die in a few hours frequently bears 
on his face a certain strange stamp of inevitable 
fate, so that it is difficult for practised eyes to be 
mistaken. 

“You will die today!” I said to Vulich. 

He turned towards me rapidly, but answered 
slowly and quietly: 

“May be so, may be not.” ... 

Then, addressing himself to the major, he 
asked: “Is the pistol loaded?” 

The major, in the confusion, could not quite re¬ 
member. 

“There, that will do, Vulich!” exclaimed some¬ 
body. “Of course it must be loaded, if it was one 
of those hanging on the wall there over our heads. 
What a man you are for joking!” 

“A silly joke too!” struck in another,. 

“I wager fifty rubles to five that the pistol is not 
loaded!” cried a third. 

A new bet was made. 

I was beginning to get tired of it all. 

“Listen,” I said, “either shoot yourself, or hang 
up the pistol in its place and let.us go to bed.” 

“Yes, of course!” many exclaimed. “Let us go 
to bed.” 

“Gentlemen, I beg of you not to move., said 
Vulich, putting the muzzle of the pistol to his fore¬ 
head. 

We were all petrified. 


124 a HERO OF OUR TIME 

“Mr. Pechorin,” he added, “take a card and 
throw it up in the air.” 

I took, as I remember now, an ace of hearts off 
the table and threw it into the air. All held their 
breath. With eyes full of terror and a certain 
vague curiosity they glanced rapidly from the pistol 
to the fateful ace, which slowly descended, quiver¬ 
ing in the air. At the moment it touched the table 
Vulich pulled the trigger ... a flash in the pan! 

“Thank God!” many exclaimed. “It wasn’t 
loaded!” 

“Let us see, though,” said Vulich. 

He cocked the pistol again, and took aim at a 
forage-cap which was hanging above the window. 
A shot rang out. Smoke filled the room; when it 
cleared away, the forage-cap was taken down. It 
had been shot right through the centre, and the 
bullet was deeply embedded in the wall. 

For two or three minutes no one was able to 
utter a word. Very quietly Vulich poured my duc¬ 
ats from the major’s purse into his own. 

Discussions arose as to why the pistol had not 
gone off the first time. Some maintained that 
probably the pan had been obstructed; others whis¬ 
pered that the powder had been damp the first 
time, and that, afterwards, Vulich had sprinkled 
some fresh powder on it; but I maintained that 
the last supposition was wrong, because I had not 
once taken my eyes off the pistol. 

“You are lucky at play!” I said to Vulich. . . . 

“For the first time in my life!” he answered, 
with a complacent smile. “It is better than ‘bank’ 
and ‘shtoss.’ ” 1 


1 Card-games. 


THE FATALIST 125 

“But, on the other hand, slightly more danger¬ 
ous!” 

“Well? Have you begun to believe in pre¬ 
destination?” 

“I do believe in it; only I cannot understand now 
why it appeared to me that you must inevitably 
die today!” 

And this same man, who, such a short time be¬ 
fore, had with the greatest calmness aimed a pistol 
at his own forehead, now suddenly fired up and be¬ 
came embarrassed. 

“That will do, though!” he said, rising to his 
feet. “Our wager is finished, and now your ob¬ 
servations, it seems to me, are out of place.” 

He took up his cap and departed. The whole 
affair struck me as being strange—and not with¬ 
out reason. Shortly after that, all the officers 
broke up and went home, discussing Vulich’s 
freaks from different points of view, and, doubt¬ 
less, with one voice calling me an egoist for hav¬ 
ing taken up a wager against a man who wanted to 
shoot himself, as if he could not have found a con¬ 
venient opportunity without my intervention. 

I returned home by the deserted byways of the 
village. The moon, full and red like the glow of 
a conflagration, was beginning to make its appear¬ 
ance from behind the jagged horizon of the house¬ 
tops; the stars were shining tranquilly in the deep, 
blue vault of the sky; and I was struck by the ab¬ 
surdity of the idea when I recalled to mind that 
once upon a time there were some exceedingly wise 
people who thought that the stars of heaven par¬ 
ticipated in our insignificant squabbles for a slice 
of ground, or some other imaginary rights. 
And what then? These lamps, lighted, so they 




126 A HERO OF OUR TIME 

fancied, only to illuminate their battles and 
triumphs, are burning with all their former bril¬ 
liance, whilst the wiseacres themselves, together 
with their hopes and passions, have long been ex¬ 
tinguished, like a little fire kindled at the edge of a 
forest by a careless wayfarer! But, on the other 
hand, what strength of will was lent them by the 
conviction that the entire heavens, with their in¬ 
numerable habitants, were looking at them with a 
sympathy, unalterable, though mute! . . . And 
we, their miserable descendants, roaming over the 
earth, without faith, without pride, without enjoy¬ 
ment, and without terror—except that involuntary 
awe which makes the heart shrink at the thought 
of the inevitable end—we are no longer capable of 
great sacrifices, either for the good of mankind or 
even for our own happiness, because we know the im¬ 
possibility of such happiness; and, just as our an¬ 
cestors used to fling themselves from one delusion 
to another, we pass indifferently from doubt to 
doubt, without possessing, as they did, either 
hope or even that vague thought, at the same 
time, keen enjoyment which the soul encounters at 
every struggle with mankind or with destiny. 

These and many other similar thoughts passed 
through my mind, but I did not follow them up, 
because I do not like to dwell upon abstract ideas 
—for what do they lead to? In my early youth 
I was a dreamer; I loved to hug to my bosom 
the images—now gloomy, now rainbow-hued— 
which my restless and eager imagination drew for 
me. And what is there left to me of all these? 
Only such weariness as might be felt after a battle 
by night with a phantom—only a confused memory 


THE FATALIST 127 

full of regrets. In that vain contest I have exhausted 
the warmth of soul and firmness of will indis¬ 
pensable to an active life. I have entered upon 
that life after having already lived through it in 
thought, and it has become wearisome and nause¬ 
ous to me, as the reading of a bad imitation of a 
book is to one who has long been familiar with the 
original. 

The events of that evening produced a some¬ 
what deep impression upon me and excited my 
nerves. I do not know for certain whether I now 
believe in predestination or not, but on that eve¬ 
ning I believed in it firmly. The proof was star¬ 
tling, and I, notwithstanding that I had laughed at 
our forefathers and their obliging astrology, fell in¬ 
voluntarily into their way of thinking. However, 
I stopped myself in time from following that dan¬ 
gerous road, and, as I have made it a rule not to 
reject anything decisively and not to trust anything 
blindly, I cast metaphysics aside and began to look 
at what was beneath my feet. The precaution was 
well-timed. I only just escaped stumbling over 
something thick and soft, but, to all appearance, 
inanimate. I bent down to see what it was, and, 
by the light of the .moon, which now shone right 
upon the road, I perceived that it was a pig which 
had been cut in two with a sabre. ... I had 
hardly time to examine it before I heard the sound 
of steps, and two Cossacks came running out of a 
byway. One of them came up to me and enquired 
whether I had seen a drunken Cossack chasing a 
pig. I informed him that I had not met the Cop- 
sack and pointed to the unhappy victim of his 
rabid bravery. 


128 A HERO OF OUR TIME 

“The scoundrel!” said the second Cossack. 
“No sooner does he drink his fill of chikhir 1 than 
off he goes and cuts up anything that comes in his 
way. Let us be after him, Eremeich, we must tie 
him up or else.” . . . 

They took themselves off, and I continued my 
way with greater caution, and at length arrived at 
my lodgings without mishap. 

I was living with a certain old Cossack under- 
officer whom I loved, not only on account of his 
kindly disposition, but also, and more especially, 
on account of his pretty daughter, Nastya. 

Wrapped up in a sheepskin coat she was wait¬ 
ing for me, as usual, by the wicket gate. The 
moon illumined her charming little lips, now turned 
blue by the cold of the night. Recognizing me she 
smiled; but I was in no mood to linger with her. 

“Good night, Nastya!” I said, and passed on. 

She was about to make some answer, but only 
sighed. 

I fastened the door of my room after me, lighted 
a candle, and threw myself on the bed; but, on that 
occasion, slumber caused its presence to be awaited 
longer than usual. By the time I fell asleep the 
east was beginning to grow pale, but I was evi¬ 
dently predestined not to have my sleep out. At 
four o’clock in the morning two fists knocked at 
my window. I sprang up. 

“What is the matter?” 

“Get up—dress yourself!” 

I dressed hurriedly and went out. 

“Do you know what has happened?” said three 
officers who had come for me, speaking all in one 
voice. 

1 A Caucasian wine. 


129 


THE FATALIST, 

They were deadly pale. 

“No, what is it?” 

“Vulich has been murdered!” 

I was petrified. 

“Yes, murdered!” they continued. “Let us lose 
no time and go !” 

“But where to?” 

“You will learn as we go.” 

We set off. They told me all that had hap¬ 
pened, supplementing their story with a variety of 
observations on the subject of the strange predes¬ 
tination which had saved Vulich from imminent 
death half an hour before he actually met his end. 

Vulich had been walking alone along a dark 
street, and the drunken Cossack who had cut up 
the pig had sprung out upon him, and perhaps 
would have passed him by without noticing him, 
had not Vulich stopped suddenly and said: 

“Whom are you looking for, my man?” . 

“You!” answered the Cossack, striking him with 
his sabre; and he cleft him from the shoulder al¬ 
most to the heart. . . . 

The two Cossacks who had met me and followed 
the murderer had arrived on the scene and raised 
the wounded man from the ground. But he was 
already at his last gasp and said these three words 
only—“he was right!” 

I alone understood the dark significance of those 
words: they referred to me. I had involuntarily 
foretold his fate to poor Vulich. My instinct had 
not deceived me; I had indeed read on his changed 
countenance the signs of approaching death. 

The murderer had locked himself up in an 
empty hut at the end of the village; and thither 
we went. A number of women, all of them weep- 


130 A HERO OF OUR TIME 

ing, were running in the same direction; at times 
a belated Cossack, hastily buckling on his dagger, 
sprang out into the street and overtook us at a 
run. The tumult was dreadful. 

At length we arrived on the scene and found a 
crowd standing around the hut, the door and shut¬ 
ters of which were locked on the inside. Groups 
of officers and Cossacks were engaged in heated 
discussions; the women were shrieking, wailing and 
talking all in one breath. One of the old women 
struck my attention by her meaning looks and the 
frantic despair expressed upon her face. She was 
sitting on a thick plank, leaning her elbows on her 
knees and supporting her head with her hands. It 
was the mother of the murderer. At times her 
lips moved. . . . Was it a prayer they were whis¬ 
pering, or a curse? 

Meanwhile it was necessary to decide upon some 
course of action and to seize the criminal. No¬ 
body, however, made bold to be the first to rush 
forward. 

I went up to the window and looked in through 
a chink in the shutter. The criminal, pale of face, 
was lying on the floor, holding a pistol in his right 
hand. The blood-stained sabre was beside him. 
His expressive eyes were rolling in terror; at times 
he shuddered and clutched at his head, as if indis¬ 
tinctly recalling the events of yesterday. I could 
not read any sign of great determination in that un¬ 
easy glance of his, and I told the major that it 
would be better at once to give orders to the Cos¬ 
sacks to burst open the door and rush in, than to 
wait until the murderer had quite recovered his 
senses. 

At that moment the old captain of the Cossacks 


THE FATALIST 131 

went up to the door and called the murderer by 
name. The latter answered back. 

“You have committed a sin, brother Ephimych!” 
said the captain, “so all you can do now is to sub¬ 
mit.” 

“I will not submit!” answered the Cossack. 

“Have you no fear of God! You see, you are 
not one of those cursed Chechenes, but an honest 
Christian! Come, if you have done it in an un¬ 
guarded moment there is no help for it! You can¬ 
not escape your fate!” 

“I will not submit!” exclaimed the Cossack men¬ 
acingly, and we could hear the snap of the cocked 
trigger. 

“Hey, my good woman!” said the Cossack cap¬ 
tain to the old woman. “Say a word to your son 
—perhaps he will lend an ear to you. . . . You 
see, to go on like this is only to make God angry. 
And look, the gentlemen here have already been 
waiting two hours.” 

The old woman gazed fixedly at him and shook 
her head. 

“Vasili Petrovich,” said the captain, going up 
to the major; “he will not surrender. I know 
him! If it comes to smashing in the door he will 
strike down several of our men. Would it not be 
better if you ordered him to be shot? There is 
a wide chink in the shutter.” 

At that moment a strange idea flashed through 
my head—like Vulich I proposed to put fate to 
the test. 

“Wait,” I said to the major, “I will take him 
alive.” 

Bidding the captain enter into a conversation 
with the murderer and setting three Cossacks at 


I 3 2 A HERO OF OUR TIME 

the door ready to force it open and rush to my aid 
at a given signal, I walked round the hut and ap¬ 
proached the fatal window. My heart was beat¬ 
ing violently. 

“Aha, you cursed wretch!” cried the captain. 
“Are you laughing at us, eh? Or do you think 
that we won’t be able to get the better of you?” 

He began to knock at the door with all his might. 
Putting my eye to the chink, I followed the move¬ 
ments of the tossack, who was not expecting an 
attack from that direction. I pulled the shutter 
away suddenly and threw myself in at the window, 
head foremost. A shot rang out right over my ear, 
and the bullet tore off one of my epaulettes. But the 
smoke which filled the room prevented my adver¬ 
sary from finding the sabre which was lying be¬ 
side him. I seized him by the arms; the Cossacks 
burst in; and three minutes had not elapsed before 
they had the criminal bound and led off under 
escort. 

The people dispersed, the officers congratulated 
me—and indeed there was cause for congratula¬ 
tion. 

After all that, it would hardly seem possible to 
avoid becoming a fatalist? But who knows for 
certain whether he is convinced of anything or not? 
And how often is a deception of the senses or an 
error of the reason accepted as a conviction! . . . 
I prefer to doubt everything. Such a disposition 
is no bar to decision of character; on the contrary, 
so far as I am concerned, I always advance more 
boldly when I do not know what is awaiting me. 
You see, nothing can happen worse than death— 
and from death there is no escape. 

On my return to the fortress I related to Mak- 


THE FATALIST 133 

sim Maksimych all that I had seen and experi¬ 
enced; and I sought to learn his opinion on the 
subject of predestination. 

At first he did not understand the word. I ex- 
plained. it to him as well as I could, and then he 
said, with a significant shake of the head: 

“Yes, sir, of course! It was a very ingenious 
trick! However, these Asiatic pistols often miss 
fire if they are badly oiled or if you don’t press 
hard enough on the trigger. I confess I don’t 
like the Circassian carbines either. Somehow or 
other they don’t suit the like of us: the butt end 
is so small, and any minute you may get your nose 
burnt! On the other hand, their sabres, now— 
well, all I need say is, my best respects to them!” 

Afterwards he said, on reflecting a little: 

“Yes, it is a pity about the poor fellow! The 
devil must have put it into his head to start a con¬ 
versation with a drunken man at night! How¬ 
ever, it is evident that fate had written it so at his 
birth!” 

I could not get anything more out of Maksim 
Maksimych; generally speaking, he had no liking 
for metaphysical disputations. 





BOOK FIVE 


THE THIRD EXTRACT FROM 
PECHORIN’S DIARY 


PRINCESS MARY 


i 



THE THIRD EXTRACT FROM 
PECHORIN’S DIARY 

Chapter I 


nth May. 


Yesterday I arrived at Pyatigorsk. 

I have engaged lodgings at the extreme end of 
the town, the highest part, at the foot of Mount 
Mashuk: during a storm the clouds will descend 
on to the roof of my dwelling. 

This morning at five o’clock, when I opened my 
window, the room was filled with the fragrance 
of the flowers growing in the modest little front- 
garden. Branches of bloom-laden bird-cherry 
trees peep in at my window, and now and again the 
breeze bestrews my writing-table with their white 
petals. The view which meets my gaze on three 
sides is wonderful: westward towers five-peaked 
Beshtau, blue as “the last cloud of a dispersed 
storm,” 1 and northward rises Mashuk, like a 
shaggy Persian cap, shutting in the whole of that 
quarter of the horizon. Eastward the outlook is 
more cheery: down below are displayed the varied 
hues of the brand-new, spotlessly clean, little town, 
with its murmuring, health-giving springs and its 
babbling, many-tongued throng. Yonder, further 
away, the mountains tower up in an amphitheatre, 

1 Pushkin. Compare Shelley’s Adonais, xxxi. 3: “as the last 
cloud of an expiring storm.” 


137 


138 A HERO OF OUR TIME 

ever bluer and mistier; and, at the edge of the ho¬ 
rizon, stretches the silver chain of snow-clad sum¬ 
mits, beginning with Kazbek and ending with two- 
peaked Elbruz. . . . Blithe is life in such a land! 
A feeling akin to rapture is diffused through all my 
veins. The air is pure and fresh, like the kiss of 
a child; the sun is bright, the sky is blue—what 
more could one possibly wish for? What need, in 
such a place as this, of passions, desires, regrets? 

However, it is time to be stirring. I will go to 
the Elizaveta spring—I am told that the whole 
society of the watering-place assembles there in 
the morning. 


Descending into the middle of the town, I walked 
along the boulevard, on which I met a few mel¬ 
ancholy groups slowly ascending the mountain. 
These, for the most part, were the families of 
landed-gentry from the steppes—as could be 
guessed at once from the threadbare, old-fashioned 
frock-coats of the husbands and the exquisite attire 
of the wives and daughters. Evidently they al¬ 
ready had all the young men of the watering-place 
at their fingers’ ends, because they looked at me 
with a tender curiosity. The Petersburg cut of 
my coat misled them; but they soon recognized 
the military epaulettes, and turned away with in¬ 
dignation. 

The wives of the local authorities—the host¬ 
esses, so to speak, of the waters—were more gra¬ 
ciously inclined. They carry lorgnettes, and they 
pay less attention to a uniform—they have grown 
accustomed in the Caucasus to meeting a fervid 
heart beneath a numbered button and a cultured 




PRINCESS MARY. 139 

intellect beneath a white forage-cap. These la¬ 
dies are very charming, and long continue to be 
charming. Each year their adorers are exchanged 
for new ones, and in that very fact, it may be, lies 
the secret of their unwearying amiability. 

Ascending by the narrow path to the Elizaveta 
spring, I overtook a crowd of officials and military 
men, who, as I subsequently learned, compose a 
class apart amongst those who place their hopes 
in the medicinal waters. They drink—but not 
water—take but few walks, indulge in only mild 
flirtations, gamble, and complain of boredom. 
They are dandies. In letting their wicker-sheathed 
tumblers down into the well of sulphurous water 
they assume academical poses. The officials wear 
bright blue cravats; the military men have ruffs 
sticking out above their collars. They affect a 
profound contempt for provincial ladies, and sigh 
for the aristocratic drawing-rooms of the capitals 
—to which they are not admitted. 

Here is the well at last! . . . Upon the small 
square adjoining it a little house with a red roof 
over the bath is erected, and somewhat further on 
there is a gallery in which the people walk when it 
rains. Some wounded officers were sitting—pale 
and melancholy—on a bench, with their crutches 
drawn up. A few ladies, their tumbler of water 
finished, were walking with rapid steps to and fro 
about the square. There were two or three pretty 
faces amongst them. Beneath the avenues of the 
vines with which the slope of Mashuk is covered, 
occasional glimpses could be caught of the gay- 
coloured hat of a lover of solitude for two—for 
beside that hat I always noticed either a military 
forage-cap or the ugly round hat of a civilian. 


I 4 0 A HERO OF OUR TIME 

Upon the steep cliff, where the pavilion called “The 
iEolian Harp” is erected, figured the lovers of 
scenery, directing their telescopes upon Elbruz. 
Amongst them were a couple of tutors, with their 
pupils who had come to be cured of scrofula. 

Out of breath, I came to a standstill at the edge 
of the mountain, and, leaning against the corner 
of a little house, I began to examine the picturesque 
surroundings, when suddenly I heard behind me a 
familiar voice. 

“Pechorin! Have you been here long?” 

I turned round. Grushnitski! We embraced. 
I had made his acquaintance in the active service 
detachment. He had been wounded in the foot by 
a bullet and had come to the water a week or so 
before me. 

Grushnitski is a cadet; he has only been a year 
in the service. From a kind of foppery peculiar 
to himself, he wears the thick cloak of a common 
soldier. He has also the soldier’s cross of St. 
George. He is well built, swarthy and black¬ 
haired. To look at him, you might say he was 
a man of twenty-five, although he is scarcely 
twenty-one. He tosses his head when he speaks, 
and keeps continually twirling his moustache with 
his left hand, his right hand being occupied with 
the crutch on which he leans. He speaks rapidly 
and affectedly; he is one of those people who have 
a high-sounding phrase ready for every occasion in 
life, who remain untouched by simple beauty, and 
who drape themselves majestically in extraordi¬ 
nary sentiments, exalted passions and exceptional 
sufferings. To produce an effect is their delight; 
they have an almost insensate fondness for roman- 


PRINCESS MARY, 1141 

tic provincial ladies. When old age approaches 
they become either peaceful landed-gentry or 
drunkards—sometimes both. Frequently they 
have many good qualities, but they have not a grain 
of poetry in their composition. Grushnitski’s pas¬ 
sion was declamation. He would deluge you with 
words so soon as the conversation went beyond the 
sphere of ordinary ideas. I have never been able 
to dispute with him. He neither answers your 
questions nor listens to you. So soon as you stop, 
he begins a lengthy tirade, which has the appear¬ 
ance of being in some sort connected with what you 
have been saying, but which is, in fact, only a con¬ 
tinuation of his own harangue. 

He is witty enough; his epigrams are frequently 
amusing, but never malicious, nor to the point. 
He slays nobody with a single word; he has no 
knowledge of men and of their foibles, because all 
his life he has been interested in nobody but him¬ 
self. His aim is to make himself the hero of a 
novel. He has so often endeavoured to convince 
others that he is a being created not for this world 
and doomed to certain mysterious sufferings, that 
he has almost convinced himself that such he is in 
reality. Hence the pride with which he wears his 
thick soldier’s cloak. I have seen through him, 
and he dislikes me for that reason, although to 
outward appearance we are on the friendliest of 
terms. Grushnitski is looked upon as a man of 
distinguished courage. I have seen him in action. 
He waves his sabre, shouts, and hurls himself for¬ 
ward with his eyes shut. That is not what I 
should call Russian courage! . . . 

I reciprocate Grushnitski’s dislike. I feel that 


I 4 2 A HERO OF OUR TIME 

some time or other we shall come into collision 
upon a narrow road, and that one of us will fare 
badly. 

His arrival in the Caucasus is also the result of 
his romantic fanaticism. I am convinced that on 
the eve of his departure from his paternal village 
he said with an air of gloom to some pretty neigh¬ 
bour that he was going away, not so much for the 
simple purpose of serving in the army as of seek¬ 
ing death, because . . . and hereupon, I am sure, 
he covered his eyes with his hand and continued 
thus, “No, you—or thou —must not know! Your 
pure soul would shudder! And what would be 
the good? What am I to you? Could you un¬ 
derstand me?” . . . and so on. 

He has himself told me that the motive which 

induced him to enter the K- regiment must 

remain an everlasting secret between him and 
Heaven. 

However, in moments when he casts aside the 
tragic mantle, Grushnitski is charming and enter¬ 
taining enough. I am always interested to see him 
with women—it is then that he puts forth his finest 
efforts, I think! 

We met like a couple of old friends. I began 
to question him about the personages of note and 
as to the sort of life which was led at the waters. 

“It is a rather prosaic life,” he said, with a sigh. 
“Those who drink the waters in the morning are 
inert—like all invalids, and those who drink the 
wines in the evening are unendurable—like all 
healthy people! There are ladies who entertain, 
but there is no great amusement to be obtained 
from them. They play whist, they dress badly 
and speak French dreadfully! The only Moscow 



PRINCESS MARY 143 

people here this year are Princess Ligovski and her 
daughter—but I am not acquainted with them. 
My soldier’s cloak is like a seal of renunciation. 
The sympathy which it arouses is as painful as 
charity.” 

At that moment two ladies walked past us in 
the direction of the well; one elderly, the other 
youthful and slender. I could not obtain a good 
view of their faces on account of their hats, but 
they were dressed in accordance with the strict 
rules of the best taste—nothing superfluous. The 
second lady was wearing a high-necked dress of 
pearl-grey, and a light silk kerchief was wound 
round her supple neck. Puce-coloured boots 
clasped her slim little ankle so charmingly, that 
even those uninitiated into the mysteries of beauty 
would infallibly have sighed, if only from wonder. 
There was something maidenly in her easy, but 
aristocratic gait, something eluding definition yet 
intelligible to the glance. As she walked past us 
an indefinable perfume, like that which sometimes 
breathes from the note of a charming woman, was 
wafted from her. 

“Look!” said Grushnitski, “there is Princess Lig¬ 
ovski with her daughter Mary, as she calls her af¬ 
ter the English manner. They have been here 
only three days.” 

“You already know her name, though?” 

“Yes, I heard it by chance,” he answered, with 
a blush. “I confess I do not desire to make their 
acquaintance. These haughty aristocrats look 
upon us army men just as they would upon sav¬ 
ages. What care they if there is an intellect be¬ 
neath a numbered forage-cap, and a heart beneath 
a thick cloak?” 


144 A HERO OF OUR TIME 

“Poor cloak!” I said, with a laugh. “But 
who is the gentleman who is just going up to them 
and handing them a tumbler so officiously?” 

“Oh, that is Raevich, the Moscow dandy. He 
is a gambler; you can see as much at once from 
that immense gold chain coiling across his sky- 
blue waistcoat. And what a thick cane he has! 
Just like Robinson Crusoe’s—and so is his beard 
too, and his hair is done like a peasant’s.” 

“You are embittered against the whole human 
race?” 

“And I have cause to be.” . . . 

“Oh, really?” 

At that moment the ladies left the well and came 
up to where we were. Grushnitski succeeded in 
assuming a dramatic pose with the aid of his crutch, 
and in a loud tone of voice answered me in French: 

“Mon cher, je hats les hommes pour ne pas les 
mepriser , car autrement la vie serait une farce trop 
degoutante. )} 

The pretty Princess Mary turned round and 
favoured the orator with a long and curious glance. 
Her expression was quite indefinite, but it was not 
contemptuous, a fact on which I inwardly congrat¬ 
ulated Grushnitski from my heart. 

“She is an extremely pretty girl,” I said. “She 
has such velvet eyes—yes, velvet is the word. I 
should advise you to appropriate the expression 
when speaking of her eyes. The lower and upper 
lashes are so long that the sunbeams are not re¬ 
flected in her pupils. I love those eyes without 
a glitter, they are so soft that they appear to caress 
you. However, her eyes seem to be her only good 
feature. . . . Tell me, are her teeth white? That 
is most important! It is a pity that she did not 


PRINCESS MARY 145 

smile at that high-sounding phrase of yours.” 

“You are speaking of a pretty woman just as 
you might of an English horse,” said Grushnitski 
indignantly. 

“Mon cher ” I answered, trying to mimic his 
tone, “je meprise les femmes, pour ne pas les aimer f 
car autrement la vie serait un melodrame trop ridi¬ 
cule.” 

I turned and left him. For half an hour or so 
I walked about the avenues of the vines, the lime¬ 
stone cliffs and the bushes hanging between them. 
The day grew hot, and I hurried homewards. 
Passing the sulphur spring, I stopped at the 
covered gallery in order to regain my breath under 
its shade, and by so doing I was afforded the op¬ 
portunity of witnessing a rather interesting scene. 
This is the position in which the dramatis persona 
were disposed: Princess Ligovski and the Mos¬ 
cow dandy were sitting on a bench in the covered 
gallery—apparently engaged in serious conversa¬ 
tion. Princess Mary, who had doubtless by this 
time finished her last tumbler, was walking pen¬ 
sively to and fro by the well. Grushnitski was 
standing by the well itself; there was nobody else 
on the square. 

I went up closer and concealed myself behind a 
corner of the gallery. At that moment Grushnitski 
let his tumbler fall on the sand and made strenuous 
efforts to stoop in order to pick it up; but his in¬ 
jured foot prevented him. Poor fellow! How he 
tried all kinds of artifices, as he leaned on his 
crutch, and all in vain! His expressive counte¬ 
nance was, in fact, a picture of suffering. 

Princess Mary saw the whole scene better than I. 

Lighter than a bird she sprang towards him, 


(Us ^ 

146 A HERO OF OUR TIME 

stooped, picked up the tumbler, and handed it to 
him with a gesture full of ineffable charm. Then 
she blushed furiously, glanced round at the gallery, 
and, having assured herself that her mother appar¬ 
ently had not seen anything, immediately regained 
her composure. By the time Grushnitski had 
opened his mouth to thank her she was a long way 
off. A moment after, she came out of the gallery 
with her mother and the dandy, but, in passing by 
Grushnitski, she assumed a most decorous and se¬ 
rious air. She did not even turn round, she did not 
even observe the passionate gaze which he kept 
fixed upon her for a long time until she had de¬ 
scended the mountain and was hidden behind the 
lime trees of the boulevard. . . . Presently I 
caught glimpses of her hat as she walked along the 
street. She hurried through the gate of one of the 
best houses in Pyatigorsk; her mother walked be¬ 
hind her and bowed adieu to Raevich at the gate. 

It was only then that the poor, passionate cadet 
noticed my presence. 

“Did you see?” he said, pressing my hand vig¬ 
orously. “She is an angel, simply an angel!” 

“Why?” I inquired, with an air of the purest 
simplicity. 

“Did you not see, then?” 

“Nq. I saw her picking up your tumbler. If 
there had been an attendant there he would have 
done the same thing—and quicker too, in the hope 
of receiving a tip. It is quite easy, however, to 
understand that she pitied you; you made such a 
terrible grimace when you walked on the wounded 
foot.” 

“And can it be that seeing her, as you did, 
at that moment when her soul was shining in 


PRINCESS MARY. 147 

her eyes, you were not in the least affected?” 
“No.” 

I was lying, but I wanted to exasperate him. I 
have an innate passion for contradiction—my 
whole life has been nothing but a series of melan¬ 
choly and vain contradictions of heart or reason. 
The presence of an enthusiast chills me with a 
twelfth-night cold, and I believe that constant asso¬ 
ciation with a person of a flaccid and phlegmatic 
temperament would have turned me into an impas¬ 
sioned visionary. I confess, too, that an unpleas¬ 
ant but familiar sensation was coursing lightly 
through my heart at that moment. It was—envy. 
I say “envy” boldly, because I am accustomed to 
acknowledge everything to myself. It would be 
hard to find a young man who, if his idle fancy had 
been attracted by a pretty woman and he had sud¬ 
denly found her openly singling out before his eyes 
another man equally unknown to her—it would be 
hard, I say, to find such a young man (living, of 
course, in the great world and accustomed to in¬ 
dulge his self-love) who would not have been un¬ 
pleasantly taken aback in such a case. 

In silence Grushnitski and I descended the moun¬ 
tain and walked along the boulevard, past the win¬ 
dows of the house where our beauty had hidden 
herself. She was sitting by the window. Grush¬ 
nitski, plucking me by the arm, cast upon her one 
of those gloomily tender glances which have so little 
effect upon women. I directed my lorgnette at her, 
and observed that she smiled at his glance and that 
my insolent lorgnette made her downright angry. 
And how, indeed, should a Caucasian military man 
presume to direct his eyeglass at a princess from 
Moscow? ... 


Chapter II 


13 th May . 

This morning the doctor came to see me. His 
name is Werner, but he is a Russian. What is 
there surprising in that? I have known a man 
named Ivanov, who was a German. 

Werner is a remarkable man, and that for many 
reasons. Like almost all medical men he is a scep¬ 
tic and a materialist, but, at the same time, he is a 
genuine poet—a poet always in deeds and often in 
words, although he has never written two verses in 
his life. He has mastered all the living chords of 
the human heart, just as one learns the veins of a 
corpse, but he has never known how to avail him¬ 
self of his knowledge. In like manner, it some¬ 
times happens that an excellent anatomist does not 
know how to cure a fever. Werner usually made 
fun of his patients in private; but once I saw him 
weeping over a dying soldier. . . . He was poor, 
and dreamed of millions, but he would not take a 
single step out of his way for the sake of money. 
He once told me that he would rather do a favour 
to an enemy than to a friend, because, in the latter 
case, it would mean selling his beneficence, whilst 
hatred only increases proportionately to the magna¬ 
nimity of the adversary. He had a malicious 
tongue; and more than one good, simple soul has ac- 


PRINCESS MARY 149 

quired the reputation of a vulgar fool through being 
labelled with one of his epigrams. His rivals, en¬ 
vious medical men of the watering-place, spread the 
report that he was in the habit of drawing carica¬ 
tures of his patients. The patients were incensed, 
and almost all of them discarded him. His friends, 
that is to say all the genuinely well-bred people who 
were serving in the Caucasus, vainly endeavoured to 
restore his fallen credit. 

His outward appearance was of the type which, 
at the first glance, creates an unpleasant impression, 
but which you get to like in course of time, when the 
eye learns to read in the irregular features the 
stamp of a tried and lofty soul. Instances have 
been known of women falling madly in love with 
men of that sort, and having no desire to exchange 
their ugliness for the beauty of the freshest and 
rosiest of Endymions. We must give women their 
due: they possess an instinct for spiritual beauty, for 
which reason, possibly, men such as Werner love 
women so passionately. 

Werner was small and lean and as weak as a 
baby. One of his legs was shorter than the other, 
as was the case with Byron. In comparison with 
his body, his head seemed enormous. His hair was 
cropped close, and the unevennesses of his cranium, 
thus laid bare, would have struck a phrenologist by 
reason of the strange intertexture of contradictory 
propensities. His little, ever restless, black eyes 
seemed as if they were endeavouring to fathom 
your thoughts. Taste and neatness were to be ob¬ 
served in his dress. His small, lean, sinewy hands 
flaunted themselves in bright-yellow gloves. His 
frock-coat, cravat and waistcoat were invariably of 
black. The young men dubbed him Mephistophe- 


150 A HERO OF OUR TIME 

les; he pretended to be angry at the nickname, but 
in reality it flattered his vanity. Werner and I 
soon understood each other and became friends, be¬ 
cause I, for my part, am ill-adapted for friendship. 

^ Of two friends, one is always the slave of the other, 
although frequently neither acknowledges the fact 
to himself. Now, the slave I could not be; and to 
be the master would be a wearisome trouble, be¬ 
cause, at the same time, deception would be re¬ 
quired. Besides, I have servants and money! 

Our friendship originated in the following cir¬ 
cumstances. I met Werner at S-, in the midst 

of a numerous and noisy circle of young people. To¬ 
wards the end of the evening the conversation took 
a philosophico-metaphysical turn. We discussed 
the subject of convictions, and each of us had some 
different conviction to declare. 

“So far as I am concerned,” said the doctor, “I 
am convinced of one thing only” . . . 

“And that is-?” I asked, desirous of learn¬ 

ing the opinion of a man who had been silent till 
then. 

“Of the fact,” he answered, “that sooner or later, 
one fine morning, I shall die.” 

“I am better off than you,” I said. “In addition 
to that, I have a further conviction, namely, that, 
one very nasty evening, I had the misfortune to be 
born.” 

All the others considered that we were talking 
nonsense, but indeed not one of them said anything 
more sensible. From that moment we singled each 
other out amongst the crowd. We used frequently 
to meet and discuss abstract subjects in a very seri¬ 
ous manner, until each observed that the other was 
throwing dust in his eyes. Then, looking sig- 




PRINCESS MARY 151 

nifkantly at each other—as, according to Cicero, 
the Roman augurs used to do—we would burst out 
laughing heartily and, having had our laugh, we 
would separate, well content with our evening. 

I was lying on a couch, my eyes fixed upon the 
ceiling and my hands clasped behind my head, when 
Werner entered my room. He sat down in an 
easy chair, placed his cane in a corner, yawned, and 
announced that it was getting hot out of doors. I 
replied that the flies were bothering me—and we 
both fell silent. 

“Observe, my dear doctor,” I said, “that, but 
for fools, the world would be a very dull place. 
Look! Here are you and I, both sensible men! 
We know beforehand that it is possible to dispute 
ad infinitum about everything—and so we do not 
dispute. Each of us knows almost all the other’s 
secret thoughts: to us a single word is a whole 
history; we see the grain of every one of our 
feelings through a threefold husk. What is sad, 
we laugh at; what is laughable, we grieve at; 
but, to tell the truth, we are fairly indifferent, 
generally speaking, to everything except our¬ 
selves. Consequently, there can be no interchange 
of feelings and thoughts between us; each of us 
knows all he cares to know about the other, and 
that knowledge is all he wants. One expedient 
remains—to tell the news. So tell me some news.” 

Fatigued by this lengthy speech, I closed my 
eyes and yawned. The doctor answered after 
thinking awhile: 

“There is an idea, all the same, in that nonsense 
of yours.” 

“Two,” I replied. 

“Tell me one, and I will tell you the other.” 


152 A HERO OF OUR TIME 

“Very well, begin!’’ I said, continuing to ex¬ 
amine the ceiling and smiling inwardly. 

“You are anxious for information about some of 
the new-comers here, and I can guess who it is, 
because they, for their part, have already been 
inquiring about you ” 

“Doctor! Decidedly it is impossible for us to 
hold a conversation! We read into each other’s 
soul.” 

“Now the other idea?” . . . 

“Here it is: I wanted to make you relate 
something, for the following reasons: firstly, 
listening is less fatiguing than talking; secondly, 
the listener cannot commit himself; thirdly, he 
can learn another’s secret; fourthly, sensible 
people, such as you, prefer listeners to speakers. 
Now to business; what did Princess Ligovski tell 
you about me?” 

“You are quite sure that it was Princess 
Ligovski . . . and not Princess Mary?” . . . 

“Quite sure.” 

“Why?” 

“Because Princess Mary inquired about ^Grush- 
nitski.” 

“You are gifted with a fine imagination! 
Princess Mary said that she was convinced that 
the young man in the soldier’s cloak had been 
reduced to the ranks on account of a duel” . . . 

“I hope you left her cherishing that pleasant 
delusion” . . . 

“Of course” ... 

“A plot!” I exclaimed in rapture. “We will 
make it our business to see to the denouement of 
this little comedy. It is obvious that fate is 
taking care that I shall not be bored!” 


PRINCESS MARY 153 

“I have a presentiment,” said the doctor, “that 
poor Grushnitski will be your victim.” 

“Proceed, doctor.” 

“Princess Ligovski said that your face was 
familiar to her. I observed that she had probably 
met you in Petersburg—somewhere in society. . . . 
I told her your name. She knew it well. It ap¬ 
pears that your history created a great stir there. 
. . . She began to tell us of your adventures, 
most likely supplementing the gossip of society 
with observations of her own. . . . Her daughter 
listened with curiosity. In her imagination you 
have become the hero of a novel in a new style. . . . 
I did not contradict Princess Ligovski, although I 
knew that she was talking nonsense.” 

“Worthy friend!” I said, extending my hand 
to him. 

The doctor pressed it feelingly and continued: 

“If you like I will present you.” . . . 

“Good heavens!” I said, clapping my hands. 
“Are heroes ever presented? In no other way do 
they make the acquaintance of their beloved than 
by saving her from certain death!” . . . 

“And you really wish to court Princess Mary?” 

“Not at all, far from it! . . . Doctor, I tri¬ 
umph at last! You do not understand me! . . . 
It vexes me, however,” I continued after a mo¬ 
ment’s silence. “I never reveal my secrets my¬ 
self, but I am exceedingly fond of their being 
guessed, because in that way I can always disavow 
them upon occasion. However, you must describe 
both mother and daughter to me. What sort of 
people are they?” 

“In the first place, Princess Ligovski is a woman 
of forty-five,” answered Werner. “She has a 


154 A HERO OF OUR TIME 

splendid digestion, but her blood is out of order 
—there are red spots on her cheeks. She has 
spent the latter half of her life in Moscow, and has 
grown stout from leading an inactive life there. 
She loves spicy stories, and sometimes says im¬ 
proper things herself when her daughter is out of 
the room. She has declared to me that her 
daughter is as innocent as a dove. What does that 
matter to me? ... I was going to answer that she 
might be at her ease, because I would never tell any 
one. Princess Ligovski is taking the cure for her 
rheumatism, and the daughter, for goodness knows 
what. I have ordered each of them to drink two 
tumblers a day of sulphurous water, and to bathe 
twice a week in the diluted bath. Princess Ligov¬ 
ski is apparently unaccustomed to giving orders. 
She cherishes respect for the intelligence and at¬ 
tainments of her daughter, who has read Byron in 
English and knows algebra; in Moscow, evidently, 
the ladies have entered upon the paths of erudition 
—and a good thing, too! The men here are gen¬ 
erally so unamiable, that, for a clever woman, it 
must be intolerable to flirt with them. Princess 
Ligovski is very fond of young people; Princess 
Mary looks on them with a certain contempt—a 
Moscow habit! In Moscow they cherish only wits 
of not less than forty.” 

“You have been in Moscow, doctor?” 

“Yes, I had a practice there.” 

“Continue.” 

“But I think I have told everything. ... No, 
there is something else: Princess Mary, it seems, 
loves to discuss emotions, passions, etcetera. She 
was in Petersburg for one winter, and disliked it— 


PRINCESS MARY 155 

especially the society: no doubt she was coldly re¬ 
ceived.” 

“You have not seen any one with them today?” 

“On the contrary, there was an aide-de-camp, a 
stiff guardsman, and a lady—one of the latest ar¬ 
rivals, a relation of Princess Ligovski on the hus¬ 
band’s side—very pretty, but apparently very 
ill. . . . Have you not met her at the well? She 
is of medium height, fair, with regular features; 
she has the complexion of a consumptive, and there 
is a little black mole on her right cheek. I was 
struck by the expressiveness of her face.” 

“A mole!” I muttered through my teeth. “Is 
is possible?” 

The doctor looked at me, and, laying his hand 
on my heart, said triumphantly: 

“You know her!” 

My heart was, in fact, beating more violently 
than usual. 

“It is your turn, now, to triumph,” I said. “But 
I rely on you: you will not betray me. I have not 
see her yet, but I am convinced that I recognize 
from your portrait a woman whom I loved in the 
old days. . . . Do not speak a word to her about 
me; if she asks any questions, give a bad report of 
me.” 

“Be it so!” said Werner, shrugging his shoul¬ 
ders. 

When he had departed, my heart was com¬ 
pressed with terrible grief. Has destiny brought 
us together again in the Caucasus, or has she come 
hither on purpose, knowing that she would meet 
me? . . . And how shall we meet? . . . And 
then, is it she? . . . My presentiments have never 


i$6 A HERO OF OUR TIME 

deceived me. There is not a man in the world 
over whom the past has acquired such a power as 
over me. Every recollection of bygone grief or 
joy strikes my soul with morbid effect, and draws 
forth ever the same sounds. ... I am stupidly 
constituted: I forget nothing—nothing! 

After dinner, about six o’clock, I went on to the 
boulevard. It was crowded. The two princesses 
were sitting on a bench, surrounded by young men, 
who were vying with each other in paying them at¬ 
tention. I took up my position on another bench 
at a little distance off, stopped two Dragoon officers 
whom I knew, and proceeded to tell them some¬ 
thing. Evidently it was amusing, because they be¬ 
gan to laugh loudly like a couple of madmen. 
Some of those who were surrounding Princess 
Mary were attracted to my side by curiosity, and 
gradually all of them left her and joined my cir¬ 
cle. I did not stop talking; my anecdotes were 
clever to the point of absurdity, my jests at the ex¬ 
pense of the queer people passing by, malicious to 
the point of frenzy. I continued to entertain the 
public till sunset. Princess Mary passed by me a 
few times, arm-in-arm with her mother, and accom¬ 
panied by a certain lame old man. A few times 
her glance as it fell upon me expressed vexation, 
while endeavouring to express indifference. . . . 

“What has he been telling you?” she inquired of 
one of the young men, who had gone back to her 
out of politeness. “No doubt a most interesting 
story—his own exploits in battle?” . . . 

This was said rather loudly, and probably with 
the intention of stinging me. 

“Aha!” I thought to myself. “You are down- 


PRINCESS MARY 157 

right angry, my dear Princess. Wait awhile, 
there is more to follow.” 

Grushnitski kept following her like a beast of 
prey, and would not let her out of his sight. I 
wager that tomorrow he will ask somebody to pre¬ 
sent him to Princess Ligovski. She will be glad, 
because she is bored. 



Chapter III 


1 6th May . 

In the course of two days my affairs have gained 
ground tremendously. Princess Mary positively 
hates me. Already I have had repeated to me two 
or three epigrams on the subject of myself—rather 
caustic, but at the same time very flattering. She 
finds it exceedingly strange that I, who am accus¬ 
tomed to good society, and am so intimate with her 
Petersburg cousins and aunts, do not try to make 
her acquaintance. Every day we meet at the well 
and on the boulevard. I exert all my powers to 
entice away her adorers, glittering aides-de-camp, 
pale-faced visitors from Moscow, and others—and 
I almost always succeed. I have always hated en¬ 
tertaining guests: now my house is full every day; 
they dine, sup, gamble, and alas! my champagne 
triumphs over the might of Princess Mary’s mag¬ 
netic eyes! 

I met her yesterday in Chelakhov’s shop. She 
was bargaining for a marvellous Persian rug, and 
implored her mother not to be niggardly: the rug 
would be such an ornament to her boudoir. . . . 
I outbid her by forty rubles, and bought it over 
her head. I was rewarded with a glance in which 
the most delightful fury sparkled. About dinner¬ 
time, I ordered my Circassian horse, covered with 


PRINCESS MARY 159 

that very rug, purposely to be led past her win¬ 
dows. Werner was with the princesses at the time, 
and told me that the effect of the scene was most 
dramatic. Princess Mary wishes to preach a cru¬ 
sade against me, and I have even noticed that, al¬ 
ready, two of the aides-de-camp salute me very 
coldly, when they are in her presence—they dine 
with me every day, however. 

Grushnitski has assumed an air of mystery; he 
walks with his arms folded behind his back and 
does not recognize any one. His foot has got well 
all at once, and there is hardly a sign of a limp. 
He has found an opportunity of entering into con¬ 
versation with Princess Ligovski and of paying 
Princess Mary some kind of a compliment. The 
latter is evidently not very fastidious, for, ever 
since, she answers his bow with a most charming 
smile. 

“Are you sure you do not wish to make the 
Lierovskis’ acquaintance?” he said to me yesterday. 

“Positive.” 

“Good gracious! The pleasantest house at the 
waters! All the best society of Pyatigorsk is to 
be found there.” . . . 

“My friend, I am terribly tired of even other 
society than that of Pyatigorsk. So you visit the 
Ligovskis?” 

“Not yet. I have spoken to Princess Mary 
once or twice, but that is all. You know it is 
rather awkward to go and visit them without be¬ 
ing invited, although that is the custom here. . . . 
It would be a different matter if I was wearing 
epaulettes.” . . . 

“Good heavens! Why, you are much more in¬ 
teresting as it is! You simply do not know how to 


i6o A HERO OF OUR TIME 

avail yourself of your advantageous position. . . . 
Why, that soldier’s cloak makes a hero and a 
martyr of you in the eyes of any lady of sen¬ 
timent !” 

Grushnitski smiled complacently. 

“What nonsense!” he said. 

“I am convinced,” I continued, “that Princess 
Mary is in love with you already.” 

He blushed up to the ears and looked big. 

Oh, vanity! Thou art the lever with which Ar¬ 
chimedes was to lift the earthly sphere! . . . 

“You are always jesting!” he said, pretending to 
be angry. “In the first place, she knows so little 
of me as yet.” . . . 

“Women love only those whom they do not 
know!” 

“But I have no pretensions whatsoever to pleas¬ 
ing her. I simply wish to make the acquaintance 
of an agreeable household; and it would be ex¬ 
tremely ridiculous if I were to cherish the slightest 
hope. . . . With you, now, for instance, it is a 
different matter! You Petersburg conquerors! 
You have but to look—and women melt. . . . 
But do you know, Pechorin, what Princess Mary 
said of you?” . . . 

“What? She has spoken to you already about 
me?” 

“Do not rejoice too soon, though.' The other 
day, by chance, I entered into conversation with 
her at the well; her third word was, ‘Who is that 
gentleman with such an unpleasant, heavy glance? 
He was with you when’ . . . she blushed, and did 
not like to mention the day, remembering her own 
delightful little exploit. ‘You need not tell me what 
day it was,’ I answered; ‘it will ever be present to 


PRINCESS MARY 161 

my memory!’. . . Pechorin, my friend, I cannot 
congratulate you, you are in her black books. . . . 
And, indeed, it is a pity, because Mary is a charm¬ 
ing girl!” ... . . 

It must be observed that Grushnitski is one of 
those men who, in speaking of a woman with whom 
they are barely acquainted, call her my Mary, my 
Sophie } if she has had the good fortune to please 
them. 

I assumed a serious air and answered: 

“Yes, she is good-looking. . . . Only be care¬ 
ful, Grushnitski! Russian ladies, for the mpst 
part, cherish only Platonic love, without mingling 
any thought of matrimony with it; and Platonic 
love is exceedingly embarrassing. Princess Mary 
seems to be one of those women who want to be 
amused. If she is bored in your company for two 
minutes on end—you are lost irrevocably. Your 
silence ought to excite her curiosity, your conver¬ 
sation ought never to satisfy it completely; you 
should alarm her every minute; ten times, in public, 
she will slight people’s opinion for you and will 
call that a sacrifice, and, in order to requite her¬ 
self for it, she will torment you. Afterwards she 
will simply say that she cannot endure you. If 
you do not acquire authority over her, even her 
first kiss will not give you the right to a second. 
She will flirt with you to her heart’s content, and, 
in two years’ time, she will marry a monster, in 
obedience to her mother, and will assure herself 
that she is unhappy, that she has loved only one 
man—that is to say, you —but that Heaven was 
not willing to unite her to him because he wore a 
soldier’s cloak, although beneath that thick, grey 
cloak beat a heart, passionate and noble.” . . . 


i 6 z A HERO OF OUR TIME 

Grushnitski smote the table with his fist and fell 
to walking to and fro across the room. 

I laughed inwardly and even smiled once or 
twice, but fortunately he did not notice. It is evi¬ 
dent that he is in love, because he has grown even 
more confiding than heretofore. Moreover, a 
ring has made its appearance on his finger, a silver 
ring with black enamel of local workmanship. It 
struck me as suspicious. ... I began, to examine 
it, and what do you think I saw? The name 
Mary was engraved on the inside in small letters, 
and in a line with the name was the date on which 
she had picked up the famous tumbler. I kept 
my discovery a secret. I do not want to force con¬ 
fessions from him, I want him, of his own accord, 
to choose me as his confidant—and then I will en¬ 
joy myself! . . . 


Today I rose late. I went to the well. I 
found nobody there. The day grew hot. White, 
shaggy cloudlets were flitting rapidly from the 
snow-clad mountains, giving promise of a thunder¬ 
storm; the summit of Mount Mashuk was smoking 
like a just extinguished torch; grey wisps of cloud 
were coiling and creeping like snakes around it, 
arrested in their rapid sweep and, as it were, 
hooked to its prickly brushwood. The atmos¬ 
phere was charged with electricity. I plunged in¬ 
to the avenue of the vines leading to the grotto. 

I felt low-spirited. I was thinking of the lady 
with the little mole on her cheek, of whom the 
doctor had spoken to me. . . . “Why is she 
here?” I thought. “And is it she? And what 
reason have I for thinking it is? And why am I 


PRINCESS MARY 163 

so certain of it? Is there not many a woman with 
a mole on her cheek?” Reflecting in such wise I 
came right up to the grotto. I looked in and I 
saw that a woman, wearing a straw hat and 
wrapped in a black shawl, was sitting on a stone 
seat in the cold shade of the arch. Her head was 
sunk upon her breast, and the hat covered her face. 
I was just about to turn back, in order not to dis¬ 
turb her meditations, when she glanced at me. 

“Vera!” I exclaimed involuntarily. 

She started and turned pale. 

“I knew that you were here,” she said. 

I sat down beside her and took her hand. A 
long-forgotten tremor ran through my veins at 
the sound of that dear voice. She gazed into my 
face with her deep, calm eyes. Mistrust and 
something in the nature of reproach were ex¬ 
pressed in her glance. 

“We have not seen each other for a long time,” 
I said. 

“A long time, and we have both changed in 
many ways.” 

“Consequently you love me .no longer?” . . . 

“I am married!” . . . she said. 

“Again? A few years ago, however, that rea¬ 
son also existed, but, nevertheless.” . . . 

She plucked her hand away from mine and her 
cheeks flamed. 

“Perhaps you love your second husband?’ . . . 

She made no answer and turned her head away. 

“Or is he very jealous?” 

She remained silent. 

“What then? He is young., handsome and, I 
suppose, rich—which is the chief thing—and you 
are afraid?” . . . 


164 A HERO OF OUR TIME 

I glanced at her and was alarmed. Profound 
despair was depicted upon her countenance; tears 
were glistening in her eyes. 

“Tell me,” she whispered at length, “do you 
find it very amusing to torture me? I ought to 
hate you. Since we have known each other, you 
have given me naught but suffering.” . . . 

Her voice shook; she leaned over to me, and 
let her head sink upon my breast. 

“Perhaps,” I reflected, “it is for that very rea¬ 
son that you have loved me; joys are forgotten, but 
sorrows never.” . . . 

I clasped her closely to my breast, and so we 
remained for a long time. At length our lips 
drew closer and became blent in a fervent, intox¬ 
icating kiss. Her hands were cold as ice; her 
head was burning. 

And hereupon we embarked upon one of those 
conversations which, on paper, have no sense, 
which it is impossible to repeat, and impossible 
even to retain in memory. The meaning of the 
sounds replaces and completes the meaning of the 
words, as in Italian opera. 

She is decidedly averse to my making the ac¬ 
quaintance of her husband, the lame old man of 
whom I had caught a glimpse on the boulevard. 
She married him for the sake of her son. He is 
rich, and suffers from attacks of rheumatism. I 
did not allow myself even a single scoff at his ex¬ 
pense. She respects him as a father, and will de¬ 
ceive him as a husband. ... A strange thing, the 
human heart in general, and woman’s heart in par¬ 
ticular. 

Vera’s husband, Semyon Vasilevich G-v, is 

a distant relation of Princess Ligovski. He lives 



PRINCESS MARY 165 

next door to her. Vera frequently visits the 
Princess. I have given her my promise to make 
the Ligovskis’ acquaintance, and to pay court to 
Princess Mary in order to distract attention from 
Vera. In such way, my plans have been not 
a little deranged, but it will be amusing for 
me. . . . 

Amusing! . . . Yes, I have already passed that 
period of spiritual life when happiness alone is 
sought, when the heart feels the urgent necessity 
of violently and passionately loving somebody. 
Now my only wish is to be loved, and that by very 
few. I even think that I would be content with 
one constant attachment. A wretched habit of the 
heart! . . . 

One thing has always struck me as strange. I 
have never made myself the slave of the woman' 
I have loved. On the contrary, I have always ac¬ 
quired an invincible power over her will and heart, 
without in the least endeavouring to do so. Why 
is this? Is it because I never esteem anything 
highly, and she has been continually afraid to let 
me out of her hands? Or is it the magnetic in¬ 
fluence of a powerful organism? Or is it, simply, 
that I have never succeeded in meeting a woman 
of stubborn character? 

I must confess that, in fact, I do not love women 
who possess strength of character. What busi¬ 
ness have they with such a thing? 

Indeed, I remember now. Once and once only 
did I love a woman who had a firm will which I 
was never able to vanquish. ... We parted as 
enemies—and then, perhaps, if I had met. her five 
years later we would have parted otherwise. . ... 

Vera is ill, very ill, although she does not admit 


166 A HERO OF OUR TIME 

it. I fear she has consumption, or that disease 
which is called “fievre lente”—a quite un-Russian 
disease, and one for which there is no name in our 
language. 

The storm overtook us while in the grotto and 
detained us half an hour longer. Vera did not 
make me swear fidelity, or ask whether I had loved 
others since we had parted. . . . She trusted in 
me anew with all her former unconcern, and I will 
not deceive her: she is the only woman in the world 
whom it would never be within my power to de¬ 
ceive. I know that we shall soon have to part 
again, and perchance for ever. We will both go 
by different ways to the grave, but her memory 
will remain inviolable within my soul. I have al¬ 
ways repeated this to her, and she believes me, al¬ 
though she says she does not. 

At length we separated. For a long time I fol¬ 
lowed her with my eyes, until her hat was hidden 
behind the shrubs and rocks. My heart was pain¬ 
fully contracted, just as after our first parting. 
Oh, how I rejoiced in that emotion! Can it be 
that youth is about to come back to me, with its 
salutary tempests, or is this only the farewell 
glance, the last gift—in memory of itself? . . . 
And to think that, in appearance, I am still a boy! 
My face, though pale, is still fresh; my limbs are 
supple and slender; my hair is thick and curly, my 
eyes sparkle, my blood boils. . . . 

Returning home, I mounted on horseback and 
galloped to the steppe. I love to gallop on a fiery 
horse through the tall grass, in the face of the 
desert wind; greedily I gulp down the fragrant air 
and fix my gaze upon the blue distance, endeav¬ 
ouring to seize the misty outlines of objects which 


PRINCESS MARY 167 

every minute grow clearer and clearer. What¬ 
ever griefs oppress my heart, whatever disquie¬ 
tudes torture my thoughts—all are dispersed in a 
moment; my soul becomes at ease; the fatigue of 
the body vanquishes the disturbance of the mind. 
There is not a woman’s glance which I would not 
forget at the sight of the tufted mountains, illu¬ 
mined by the southern sun; at the sight of the dark- 
blue sky, or in hearkening to the roar of the tor¬ 
rent as it falls from cliff to cliff. 

I believe that the Cossacks, yawning on their 
watch-towers, when they saw me galloping thus 
needlessly and aimlessly, were long tormented by 
that enigma, because from my dress, I am sure, 
they took me to be a Circassian. I have, in fact, 
been told that when riding on horseback, in my 
Circassian costume, I resemble a Kabardian more 
than many a Kabardian himself. And, indeed, 
so far as regards that noble, warlike garb, I am a 

f ierfect dandy. I have not a single piece of gold 
ace too much; my weapon is costly, but simply 
wrought; the fur on my cap is neither too long 
nor too short; my leggings and shoes are matched 
with all possible accuracy; my tunic is white; my 
Circassian jacket, dark-brown. I have long stud¬ 
ied the mountaineer seat on horseback, and in no 
way is it possible to flatter my vanity so much as 
by acknowledging my skill in horsemanship in the 
Cossack mode. I keep four horses—one for my¬ 
self and three for my friends, so that I may not 
be bored by having to roam about the fields all 
alone; they take my horses with pleasure, and 
never ride with me. 

It was already six o’clock in the evening, when I 
remembered that it was time to dine. My horse 


168 A HERO OF OUR TIME 

was jaded. I rode out on to the road leading 
from Pyatigorsk to the German colony, to which 
the society of the watering-place frequently rides 
en piquenique. The road meanders between 
bushes and descends into little ravines, through 
which flow noisy brooks beneath the shade of tall 
grasses. All around, in an amphitheatre, rise the 
blue masses of Mount Beshtau and the Zmeiny, 
Zhelezny and Lysy Mountains. 1 Descending into 
one of those ravines, I halted to water my horse. 
At that moment a noisy and glittering cavalcade 
made its appearance upon the road—the ladies in 
black and dark-blue riding habits, the cavaliers in 
costumes which formed a medley of the Circassian 
and Nizhegorodian. 2 In front rode Grushnitski 
with Princess Mary. 

The ladies at the watering-place still believe in 
attacks by Circassians in broad daylight; for that 
reason, doubtless, Grushnitski had slung a sabre 
and a pair of pistols over his soldier’s cloak. He 
looked ridiculous enough in that heroic attire. 

I was concealed from their sight by a tall bush, 
but I was able to see everything through the 
leaves, and to guess from the expression of their 
faces that the conversation was of a sentimental 
turn. At length they approached the slope; 
Grushnitski took hold of the bridle of the Prin¬ 
cess’s horse, and then I heard the conclusion of 
their conversation: 

“And you wish to remain all your life in the 
Caucasus?” said Princess Mary. 

“What is Russia to me?” answered her cavalier. 

1 The Snake, the Iron and the Bald Mountains. 

2 Nizhegorod is the “government” of which Nizhniy-Novgorod 
is the capital. 


PRINCESS MARY 169 

“A country in which thousands of people, because 
they are richer than I, will look upon me with con¬ 
tempt, whilst here—here this thick cloak has not 
prevented my acquaintance with you.” ... 

“On the contrary” . . . said Princess Mary, 
blushing. 

Grushnitski’s face was a picture of delight. He 
continued: 

‘Here, my life will flow along noisily, unob¬ 
served, and rapidly, under the bullets of the sav¬ 
ages, and if Heaven were every year to send me 
a single, bright glance from a woman’s eyes—like 
that which-” 

At that moment they came up to where I was. 
I struck my horse with the whip and rode out from 
behind the bush. . . . 

“Mon Dieu t un circassien!” . . . exclaimed 
Princess Mary in terror. 

In order completely to undeceive her, I replied 
in French, with a slight bow: 

“Ne craignez rien, madame, je ne suis pas plus 
dangereux que votre cavalier.” . . . 

She grew embarrassed—but at what? At her 
own mistake, or because my answer struck her as 
insolent? I should like the latter hypothesis to 
be correct. Grushnitski cast a discontented glance 
at me. 

Late in the evening, that is to say, about eleven 
o’clock, I went for a walk in the lilac avenue of the 
boulevard. The town was sleeping; lights were 
gleaming in only a few windows. On three sides 
loomed the black ridges of the cliffs, the spurs of 
Mount Mashuk, upon the summit of which, an om¬ 
inous cloud was lying. The moon was rising, in 
the east; in the distance, the snow-clad mountains 



1 7 o A HERO OF OUR TIME 

glistened like a fringe of silver. The calls of the 
sentries mingled at intervals with the roar of the hot 
springs let flow for the night. At times the loud 
clattering of a horse rang out along the street, 
accompanied by the creaking of a Nagai wagon 
and the plaintive burden of a Tartar song. 

I sat down upon a bench and fell into a rev¬ 
erie. ... I felt the necessity of pouring forth my 
thoughts in friendly conversation. . . . But with 
whom? . . . 

“What is Vera doing now?” I wondered. 

I would have given much to press her hand at 
that moment. 

All at once I heard rapi 4 and irregular 
steps. . . . Grushnitski, no doubt! ... So it 
was! 

“Where have you come from?” 

“From Princess Ligovski’s,” he said very impor¬ 
tantly. “How well Mary does sing!” . . . 

“Do you know?” I said to him. “I wager 
that she does not know that you are a cadet. She 
thinks you are an officer reduced to the ranks.” . . . 

“Maybe so. What is that to me!” ... he 
said absently. 

“No, I am only saying so.” . . . 

“But, do you know that you have made her ter¬ 
ribly angry today? She considered it an unheard- 
of piece of insolence. It was only with difficulty 
that I was able to convince her that you are so 
well bred and know society so well that you could 
not have had any intention of insulting her. She 
says that you have an impudent glance, and that 
you have certainly a very high opinion of your¬ 
self,” 


PRINCESS MARY 171 

“She is not mistaken. . . . But do you not want 
to defend her?” 

“I am sorry I have not yet the right to do 
so.” . . . 

“Oho!” I said to myself, “evidently he has 
hopes already.” 

“However, it is the worse for you,” continued 
Grushnitski; “it will be difficult for you to make 
their acquaintance now, and what a pity! It is 
one of the most agreeable houses I know.” . . . 

I smiled inwardly. 

“The most agreeable house to me now is my 
own,” I said, with a yawn, and I got up to go. 

“Confess, though, you repent?” . . . 

“What nonsense! If I like I will be at Princess 
Ligovski’s tomorrow evening!” . . . 

“We shall see.” . . . 

“I will even begin to pay my addresses to Prin¬ 
cess Mary, if you would like me to.” . . . 

“Yes, if she is willing to speak to you.” . . . 

“I am only awaiting the moment when she will 
be bored by your conversation. . . . Good-bye.” . . . 

“Well, I am going for a stroll; I could not go 
to sleep now for anything. . . . Look here, let 
us go to the restaurant instead, there is card¬ 
playing going on there. . . . What I need now 
is violent sensations.” . . . 

“I hope you will lose.” . . . 

I went home. 


Chapter IV 


21 st May. 

Nearly a week has passed, and I have not yet 
made the Ligovskis’ acquaintance. I am await¬ 
ing a convenient opportunity. Grushnitski follows 
Princess Mary everywhere like a shadow. Their 
conversations are interminable; but, when will she 
be tired of him? . . . Her mother pays no atten¬ 
tion, because he is not a man who is in a position 
to marry. Behold the logic of mothers! I have 
caught two or three tender glances—this must be 
put a stop to. 

Yesterday, for the first time, Vera made her 
appearance at the well. . . . She has never gone 
out of doors since we met in the grotto. We let 
down our tumblers at the same time, and as she 
bent forward she whispered to me: 

“You are not going to make the Ligovskis’ ac¬ 
quaintance? ... It is only there that we can 
meet. . . .” 

A reproach! . . . How tiresome! But I have 
deserved it. . . . 

By the way, there is a subscription ball tomor¬ 
row in the saloon of the restaurant, and I will 
dance the mazurka with Princess Mary. 

172 


Chapter V 


29th May . 

The saloon of the restaurant was converted into 
the assembly room of a Nobles’ Club. The com¬ 
pany met at nine o’clock. Princess Ligovski and 
her daughter were amongst the latest to make 
their appearance. Several of the ladies looked at 
Princess Mary with envy and malevolence, because 
she dresses with taste. Those who look upon 
themselves as the aristocracy of the place concealed 
their envy and attached themselves to her train. 
What else could be expected? Wherever there is 
a gathering of women, the company is immediately 
divided into a higher and a lower circle. 

Beneath the window, amongst a crowd of peo¬ 
ple, stood Grushnitski, pressing his face to the 
pane and never taking his eyes off his divinity. 
As she passed by, she gave him a hardly percep¬ 
tible nod. He beamed like the sun. . . . The 
first dance was a polonaise, after which the musi¬ 
cians struck up a waltz. Spurs began to jingle, 
and skirts to rise and whirl. 

I was standing behind a certain stout lady who 
was overshadowed by rose-coloured feathers. 
The magnificence of her dress reminded me of the 
times of the farthingale, and the motley hue of her 
by no means smooth skin, of the happy epoch of 
173 


174 A HERO OF OUR TIME 

the black taffeta patch. An immense wart on her 
neck was covered by a clasp. She was saying to 
her cavalier, a captain of dragoons: 

“That young Princess Ligovski is a most intol¬ 
erable creature! Just fancy, she jostled against 
me and did not apologize, but even turned round 
and stared at me through her lorgnette! . . . 
C’est impayable! . . . And what has she to be 
proud of? It is time somebody gave her a les¬ 
son.” . . . 

“That will be easy enough,” replied the oblig¬ 
ing captain, and he directed his steps to the other 
room. H>{)H 

I went up to Princess Mary immediately, and, 
availing myself of the local customs which allowed 
one to dance with a stranger, I invited her to waltz 
with me. 

She was scarcely able to keep from smiling and 
letting her triumph be seen; but quickly enough 
she succeeded in assuming an air of perfect indif¬ 
ference and even severity. Carelessly she let her 
hand fall upon my shoulder, inclined her head 
slightly to one side, and we began to dance. I 
have never known a waist more voluptuous and 
supple! Her fresh breath touched my face; at 
times a lock of hair, becoming separated from its 
companions in the eddy of the waltz, glided over 
my burning cheek. . . . 

I made three turns of the ballroom (she waltzes 
surprisingly well). She was out of breath, her 
eves were dulled, her half-open lips were scarcely 
able to whisper the indispensable: “merci, mon¬ 
sieur 

After a few moments’ silence I said to her, as¬ 
suming a very humble air: 


PRINCESS MARY 175 

“I have heard, Princess, that although quite un¬ 
acquainted with you, I have already had the mis¬ 
fortune to incur your displeasure . . . that you 
have considered me insolent. Can that possibly 
be true?” 

“Would you like to confirm me in that opinion 
now?” she answered, with an ironical little grim¬ 
ace—very becoming, however, to her mobile coun¬ 
tenance, 

“If I had the audacity to insult you in any way, 
then allow me to have the still greater audacity to 
beg your pardon. . . . And, indeed, I should very 
much like to prove to you that you are mistaken 
in regard to me.” . . . 

“You will find that a rather difficult task.” . . . 

“But why?” . . . 

“Because you never visit us and, most likely, 
there will not be many more of these balls.” 

“That means,” I thought, “that their doors are 
closed to me for ever.” 

“You know, Princess,” I said to her, with a cer¬ 
tain amount of vexation, “one should never spurn 
a penitent criminal: in his despair he may become 
twice as much a criminal as before . . . and 
then.” . . . 

Sudden laughter and whispering from the people 
around us caused me to turn my head and to inter¬ 
rupt my phrase. A few paces away from me 
stood a group of men, amongst them the captain 
of dragoons, who had manifested intentions hos¬ 
tile to the charming Princess. He was particu¬ 
larly well pleased with something or other, and 
was rubbing his hands, laughing and exchanging 
meaning glances with his companions. All at 
once a gentleman in an evening-dress coat and with 


176 A HERO OF OUR TIME 

long moustaches and a red face separated himself 
from the crowd and directed his uncertain steps 
straight towards Princess Mary. He was drunk. 
Coming to a halt opposite the embarrassed Prin¬ 
cess and placing his hands behind his back, he fixed 
his dull grey eyes upon her, and said in a hoarse 
treble: 

“Permettez . . . but what is the good of that 
sort of thing here. . . . All I need say is: I en¬ 
gage you for the mazurka” . . . 

“Very well!” she replied in a trembling voice, 
throwing a beseeching glance around. Alas! 
Her mother was a long way off, and not one of the 
cavaliers of her acquaintance was near. A certain 
aide-de-camp apparently saw the whole scene, but 
he concealed himself behind the crowd in order not 
to be mixed up in the affair. 

“What?” said the drunken gentleman, winking 
to the captain of dragoons, who was encouraging 
him by signS. “Do you not wish to dance then? 

. . . All the same I again have the honour to en¬ 
gage you for the mazurka. ... You think, per¬ 
haps, that I am drunk! That is all right! . . . 
I can dance all the easier, I assure you.” . . . 

I saw that she was on the point of fainting with 
fright and indignation. 

I went up to the drunken gentleman, caught him 
none too gently by the arm, and, looking him fix¬ 
edly in the face, requested him to retire. “Be¬ 
cause,” I added, “the Princess promised long ago 
to dance the mazurka with me.” 

“Well, then, there’s nothing to be done! An¬ 
other time!” he said, bursting out laughing, and 
he retired to his abashed companions, who im¬ 
mediately conducted him into another room. 


PRINCESS MARY 177 

I was rewarded by a deep, wondrous glance. 

The Princess went up to her mother and told 
her the whole story. The latter sought me out 
among the crowd and thanked me. She informed 
me that she knew my mother and was on 
terms of friendship with half a dozen of my 
aunts. 

“I do not know how it has happened that we 
have not made your acquaintance up to now,” she 
added; “but confess, you alone are to blame for 
that. You fight shy of every one in a positively 
unseemly way. I hope the air of my drawing¬ 
room will dispel your spleen. . . . Do you not 
think so?” 

I uttered one of the phrases which everybody 
must have ready for such an occasion. 

The quadrilles dragged on a dreadfully long 
time. 

At last the music struck up from the gallery, 
Princess Mary and I took up our places. 

I did not once allude to the drunken gentleman, 
or to my previous behaviour, or to Grushnitski. 
The impression produced upon her by the unpleas¬ 
ant scene was gradually dispelled; her face bright¬ 
ened up; she jested very charmingly; her conver¬ 
sation was witty, without pretensions to wit, viva¬ 
cious and spontaneous; her observations were 
sometimes profound. ... In a very involved sen¬ 
tence I gave her to understand that I had liked 
her for a long time. She bent her head and 
blushed slightly. 

“You are a strange man!” she said, with a 
forced laugh, lifting her velvet eyes upon me. 

“I did not wish to make your acquaintance,” I 
continued, “because you are surrounded by too 




178 A HERO OF OUR TIME 

dense a throng of adorers, in which I was afraid 
of being lost to sight altogether.” ^ 

“You need not have been afraid; they are all 
very tiresome” . . . 

“All? Not all, surely?” 

She looked fixedly at me as if endeavouring to 
recollect something, then blushed slightly again 
and finally pronounced with decision: 

“All!” 

“Even my friend, Grushnitski ?” 

“But is he your friend?” she said, manifesting 
some doubt. 

“Yes.” 

“He, of course, does not come into the category 
of the tiresome.” . . . 

“But into that of the unfortunate!” I said, 
laughing. 

“Of course! But do you consider that funny? 
I should like you to be in his place.” . . . 

“Well? I was once a cadet myself, and in truth,, 
it was the best time of my life!” 

“Is he a cadet, then?” . . . she said rapidly, 
and then added: “But I thought” . . . 

“What did you think?” . . . 

“Nothing! Who is that lady?” 

Thereupon the conversation took a different 
direction, and it did not return to the former subject. 

And now the mazurka came to an end and we 
separated—until we should meet again. The 
ladies drove off in different directions. I went to 
get some supper, and met Werner. 

“Aha!” he said: “so it is you! And yet you 
did not wish to make the acquaintance of Princess 
Mary otherwise than by saving her from certain 
death.” 


PRINCESS MARY 179 

“I have done better,” I replied. “I have 
saved her from fainting at the ball.” . . . 

“How was that? Tell me.” 

“No, guess!—O, you who guess everything in 
the world!” 


Chapter VI 


30 th May . 

About seven o’clock in the evening, I was walk¬ 
ing on the boulevard. Grushnitski perceived me a 
long way off, and came up to me. A sort of ri¬ 
diculous rapture was shining in his eyes. He 
pressed my hand warmly, and said in a tragic voice: 

“I thank you, Pechorin ... You understand 
me ?” 

“No; but in any case it is not worth gratitude,” 
I answered, not having, in fact, any good deed upon 
my conscience. 

“What? But yesterday! Have you forgot¬ 
ten? . . . Mary has told me everything.”. . . 

“Why! Have you everything in common so 
soon as this? Even gratitude?” . . . 

“Listen,” said Grushnitski very earnestly; “pray 
do not make fun of my love, if you wish to remain 
my friend. ... You see, I love her to the point of 
madness . . . and I think—I hope—she loves me 
too. ... I have a request to make of you. You 
will be at their house this evening; promise me to 
observe everything. I know you are experienced in 
these matters, you know women better than I. . . . 
Women! Women! Who can understand them? 
Their smiles contradict their glances, their words 
promise and allure, but the tone of their voice re¬ 
pels. ... At one time they grasp and divine in a 
moment our most secret thoughts, at another they 
180 


PRINCESS MARY. 181 

cannot understand the clearest hints. . . . Take 
Princess Mary, now: yesterday her eyes, as they 
rested upon me, were blazing with passion; today 
they are dull and cold.” . . . 

“That is possibly the result of the waters,” I 
replied. 

“You see the bad side of everything . . . ma¬ 
terialist,” he added contemptuously. “However, 
let us talk of other matters” 

And,, satisfied with his bad pun, he cheered up. 

At nine o’clock we went to Princess Ligovski’s to¬ 
gether. 

Passing by Vera’s windows, I saw her looking 
out. We threw a fleeting glance at each other. 
She entered the Ligovskis’ drawing-room soon af¬ 
ter us. Princess Ligovski presented me to her, as 
a relation of her own. Tea was served. The 
guests were numerous, and the conversation was 
general. I endeavoured to please the Princess, 
jested, and made her laugh heartily a few times. 
Princess Mary, also, was more than once on the 
point of bursting out laughing, but she restrained 
herself in order not to depart from the role she 
had assumed. She finds languor becoming to her, 
and perhaps she is not mistaken. Grushnitski ap¬ 
pears to be very glad that she is not infected by my 
gaiety. 

After tea we all went into the drawing-room. 

“Are you satisfied with my obedience, Vera?” 
I said as I was passing her. 

She threw me a glance full of love and grati¬ 
tude. I have grown accustomed to such glances; 
but at one time they constituted my felicity. The 
Princess seated her daughter at the.pianoforte, and 
all the company begged her to sing. I kept si- 


182 A HERO OF OUR TIME 

lence, and, taking advantage of the hubbub, I went 
aside to the window with Vera, who wished to say 
something of great importance to both of us. . . . 
It turned out to be—nonsense. . . . 

Meanwhile my indifference was vexing Princess 
Mary, as I was able to make out from a single an¬ 
gry, gleaming glance which she cast at me. . . . 
Oh! I understand that method of conversation 
wonderfully well: mute but expressive, brief but 
forceful! . . . 

She began to sing. She has a good voice, but 
she sings badly. . . . However, I was not listening. 

Grushnitski, on the contrary, leaning his elbows 
on the grand piano, facing her, was devouring her 
with his eyes and saying in an undertone every min¬ 
ute : “Charmant! Delicieux!” 

“Listen,” said Vera to me, “I do not wish you 
to make my husband’s acquaintance, but you must, 
without fail, make yourself agreeable to the Prin¬ 
cess; that will be an easy task for you: you can do 
anything you wish. It is only here that we shall see 
each other.” . . . 

“Only here?”. . . 

She blushed and continued: 

“You know that I am your slave: I have never 
been able to resist you . . . and I shall be punished 
for it, you will cease to love me! At least, I want 
to preserve my reputation . . . not for myself— 
that you know very well! . . . Oh! I beseech you: 
do not torture me, as before, with idle doubts and 
feigned coldness! It may be that I shall die soon; 
I feel that I am growing weaker from day to day. 

. . . And, yet, I cannot think of the future life, I 
think only of you. ... You men do not under¬ 
stand the delights of a glance, of a pressure of the 


PRINCESS MARY 183 

hand ... but as for me, I swear to you that, when 
I listen to your voice, I feel such a deep, strange 
bliss that the most passionate kisses could not take 
its place.” 

Meanwhile, Princess Mary had finished her song. 
Murmurs of praise were to be heard all around. I 
went up to her after all the other guests, and said 
something rather carelessly to her on the subject of 
her voice. 

She made a little grimace, pouting her lower lip, 
and dropped a very sarcastic curtsey. 

“That is all the more flattering,” she said, “be¬ 
cause you have not been listening to me at all; but 
perhaps you do not like music?” . . . 

“On the contrary, I do. . . . After dinner, es¬ 
pecially.” 

“Grushnitski is right in saying that you have very 
prosaic tastes . . . and I see that you like music 
in a gastronomic respect.” 

“You are mistaken again: I am by no means an 
epicure. I have a most wretched digestion. But 
music after dinner puts one to sleep, and to sleep 
after dinner is healthful; consequently I like music 
in a medicinal respect. In the evening, on the con¬ 
trary, it excites my nerves too much: I become 
either too melancholy or too gay. Both are fa¬ 
tiguing, where there is no positive reason for be¬ 
ing either sorrowful or glad. And, moreover, mel¬ 
ancholy in society is ridiculous, and too great gaiety 
is unbecoming.” . . . 

She did not hear me to the end, but went, away 
and sat beside Grushnitski, and they entered into a 
sort of sentimental conversation. Apparently the 
Princess answered his sage phrases rather absent- 
mindedly and inconsequently, although endeavour- 


184 A HERO OF OUR TIME 

ing to show that she was listening to him with atten¬ 
tion, because sometimes he looked at her in aston¬ 
ishment, trying to divine the cause of the inward 
agitation which was expressed at times in her rest¬ 
less glance. . . . 

But I have found you out, my dear Princess! 
Have a care! You want to pay me back in the 
same coin, to wound my vanity—you will not suc¬ 
ceed ! And if you declare war on me, I will be mer¬ 
ciless ! 

In the course of the evening, I purposely tried 
a few times to join in their conversation, but she 
met my remarks rather coldly, and, at last, I retired 
in pretended vexation. Princess Mary was trium¬ 
phant, Grushnitski likewise. Triumph, my friends, 
and be quick about it! . . . You will not have long 
to triumph! ... It cannot be otherwise. I have 
a presentiment. . . . On making a woman’s ac¬ 
quaintance I have always unerringly guessed 
whether she would fall in love with me or not. 

The remaining part of the evening I spent at 
Vera’s side, and talked to the full about the old 
days. . . . Why does she love me so much? In 
truth, I am unable to say, all the more so because 
she is the only woman who has understood me per¬ 
fectly, with all my petty weaknesses and evil pas¬ 
sions. . . . Can it be that wickedness is so attrac¬ 
tive? . . . 

Grushnitski and I left the house together. In 
the street he took my arm, and, after a long silence, 
said: 

“Well?” 

“You are a fool,” I should have liked to answer. 
But I restrained myself and only shrugged my 
shoulders. 


Chapter VII 


6 th June. 

All these days I have not once departed from my 
system. Princess Mary has come to like talking to 
me; I have told her a few of the strange events of 
my life, and she is beginning to look on me as an 
extraordinary man. I mock at everything in the 
world, especially feelings; and she is taking alarm. 
When I am present, she does not dare to embark 
upon sentimental discussions with Grushnitski, and 
already, .on a few occasions, she has answered his 
sallies with a mocking smile. But every time that 
Grushnitski comes up to her I assume an air of 
meekness and leave the two of them together. On 
the first occasion, she was glad, or tried to make it 
appear so; on the second, she was angry with me; 
on the third—with Grushnitski. 

“Yiou have very little vanity!” she said to me 
yesterday. “What makes you think that I find 
Grushnitski the more entertaining?” 

I answered that I was sacrificing my own pleas¬ 
ure for the sake of the happiness of a friend. 

“And my pleasure, too,” she added. 

I looked at her intently and assumed a serious 
air. After that for the whole day I did not speak 
a single word to her. ... In the evening, she was 
pensive; this morning, at the well, more pensive 
still. When I went up to her, she was listening 
185 


186 A HERO OF OUR TIME 

absent-mindedly to Grushnitski, who was appar¬ 
ently falling into raptures about Nature, but, so 
soon as she perceived me, she began to laugh—at 
a most inopportune moment—pretending not to 
notice me. I went on a little further and began 
stealthily to observe her. She turned away from 
her companion and yawned twice. Decidedly she 
had grown tired of Grushnitski—I will not talk to 
her for another two days. 


Chapter VIII 


nth June. 


I often ask myself why I am so obstinately en¬ 
deavouring to win the love of a young girl whom I 
do not wish to deceive, and whom I will never 
marry. Why this woman-like coquetry? Vera 
loves me more than Princess Mary ever will. Had 
I regarded the latter as an invincible beauty, I 
should perhaps have been allured by the difficulty-of 
the undertaking. . . . 

However, there is no such difficulty in this case! 
Consequently, my present feeling is not that rest¬ 
less craving for love which torments us in the early 
days of our youth, flinging us from one woman to 
another until we find one who cannot endure us. 
And then begins our constancy—that sincere, un¬ 
ending passion which may be expressed mathemat¬ 
ically by a line falling from a point into space— 
the secret of that endlessness lying only in the im¬ 
possibility of attaining the aim, that is to say, the 
end. 

From what motive, then, am I taking all this 
trouble?—Envy of Grushnitski? Poor fellow! 
He is quite undeserving of it. Or, is it the result 
of that ugly, but invincible,, feeling which causes 
us to destroy the sweet illusions of our neighbour 
in order to have the petty satisfaction of saying 


188 A HERO OF OUR TIME 

to him, when, in despair, he asks what he is to 
believe: 

“My friend, the same thing happened to me, and 
you see, nevertheless, that I dine, sup, and sleep very 
peacefully, and I shall, I hope, know how to die 
without tears and lamentations.” 

There is, in sooth, a boundless enjoyment in the 
possession of a young, scarce-budded soul! It is 
like a floweret which exhales its best perfume at 
the kiss of the first ray of the sun. You should 
pluck the flower at that moment, and, breathing its 
fragrance to the full, cast it upon the road: per¬ 
chance some one will pick it up! I feel within me 
that insatiate hunger which devours everything it 
meets upon the way; I look upon the sufferings and 
V joys of others only from the point of view of their 
relation to myself, regarding them as the nutriment 
which sustains my spiritual forces. I myself am no 
longer capable of committing follies under the in¬ 
fluence of passion; with me, ambition has been re¬ 
pressed by circumstances, but it has emerged in an¬ 
other form, because ambition is nothing more nor 
less than a thirst for power, and my chief pleasure 
is to make everything that surrounds me subject to 
[/my will. To arouse the feeling of love, devotion 
and awe towards oneself—is not that the first sign, 
and the greatest triumph, of power? To be the 
cause of suffering and joy to another—without in 
the least possessing any definite right to be so— 
is not that the sweetest food for our pride? And 
what is happiness?—Satisfied pride. Were I to 
consider myself the best, the most powerful man in 
the world, I should be happy; were all to love me, 

I should find within me inexhaustible springs of 


PRINCESS MARY 189 

love. Evil begets evil; the first suffering gives us 
the conception of the satisfaction of torturing an¬ 
other. The idea of evil cannot enter the mind 
without arousing a desire to put it actually into 
practice. “Ideas are organic entities,” some one 
has said. The very fact of their birth endows them 
with form, and that form Is action. He in whose 
brain the most ideas are born accomplishes the 
most. From that cause a genius, chained to an of¬ 
ficial desk, must die or go mad, just as it often hap¬ 
pens that a man of powerful constitution, and at 
the same time of sedentary life and simple habits, 
dies of an apoplectic stroke. 

Passions are naught but ideas in their first devel¬ 
opment; they are an attribute of the youth of the 
heart, and foolish is he who thinks that he will be 
agitated by them all his life. Many quiet rivers be¬ 
gin their course as noisy waterfalls, and there is 
not a single stream which will leap or foam 
throughout its way to the sea. That quietness, 
however, is frequently the sign of great, though la¬ 
tent, strength. The fulness and depth of feelings 
and thoughts do not admit of frenzied outbursts. 
In suffering and in enoyment the soul renders it¬ 
self a strict account of all it experiences and con¬ 
vinces itself that such things must be. It knows 
that, but for storms, the constant heat of the sun 
would dry it up! It imbues itself with its own life 
—pets and punishes itself like a favourite child. It 
is only in that highest state of self-knowledge that 
a man can appreciate the divine justice. 

On reading over this page, I observe that I have 
made a wide digression from my subject. . . . 
But what matter? ... You see, it is for myself 


190 A HERO OF OUR TIME 

that I am writing this diary, and, consequently any¬ 
thing that I jot down in it will in time be a valuable 
reminiscence for me. 


Grushnitski has called to see me today. He 
flung himself upon my neck; he has been promoted 
to be an officer. We drank champagne. Doctor 
Werner came in after him. 

# “I do not congratulate you,” he said to Grush¬ 
nitski. 

“Why not?” 

“Because the soldier’s cloak suits you very well, 
and you must confess that an infantry uniform, 
made by one of the local tailors, will not add any¬ 
thing of interest to you. . . . Do you not see? 
Hitherto, you have been an exception, but now you 
will come under the general rule.” 

“Talk away, doctor, talk away! You will not 
prevent me from rejoicing. He does not know,” 
added Grushnitski in a whisper to me, “how many 
hopes these epaulettes have lent me. . . . Oh! . . . 
Epaulettes, epaulettes! Your little stars are guid¬ 
ing stars! No! I am perfectly happy now!” 

“Are you coming with us on our walk to the 
hollow?” I asked him. 

“I? Not on any account will I show myself to 
Princess Mary until my uniform is finished.” 

“Would you like me to inform her of your hap¬ 
piness?” 

“No, please, not a word. ... I want to give her 
a surprise.” . . . 

“Tell me, though, how are you getting on with 
her?” 

He became embarrassed, and fell into thought; 


PRINCESS MARY 191 

he would gladly have bragged and told lies, but 
his conscience would not let him; and, at the same 
time, he was ashamed to confess the truth. 

“What do you think? Does she love you?” . . . 

“Love me? Good gracious, Pechorin, what 
ideas you do have! . . . How could she possibly 
love me so soon? . . . And a well-bred woman, 
even if she is in love, will never say so.” . . . 

“Very well! And, I suppose, in your opinion, 
a well-bred man should also keep silence in regard 
to his passion?” . . . 

“Ah, my dear fellow! There are ways of do¬ 
ing everything; often things may remain unspoken, 
but yet may be guessed.” . . . 

“That is true. . . . But the love which we read 
in the eyes does not pledge a woman to anything, 
whilst words . . . Have a care, Grushnitski, she is 
befooling you!” 

“She?” he answered, raising his eyes heavenward 
and smiling complacently. “I am sorry for you, 
Pechorin!”. . . 

He took his departure. 

In the evening, a numerous company set off to 
walk to the hollow. 

In the opinion of the learned of Pyatigorsk, the 
hollow in question is nothing more nor less than 
an extinct crater. It is situated on a slope of 
Mount Mashuk, at the distance of a verst from the 
town, and is approached by a narrow path between 
brushwood and rocks. In climbing up the hill, I 
gave Princess Mary my arm, and she did not leave 
it during the whole excursion. 

Our conversation commenced with slander; I 
proceeded to pass in review our present and absent 
acquaintances; at first I exposed their ridiculous, 


192 A HERO OF OUR TIME 

and then their bad, sides. My choler rose. I be¬ 
gan in jest, and ended in genuine malice. At first 
she was amused, but afterwards frightened. 

“You are a dangerous man !” she said. “I would 
rather perish in the woods under the knife of an 
assassin than under your tongue. ... In all earn¬ 
estness I beg of you: when it comes into your mind 
to speak evil of me, take a knife instead and cut my 
throat. I think you would not find that a very 
difficult matter.” 

“Am I like an assassin, then?” . . . 

“You are worse.” . . . 

I fell into thought for a moment; then, assum¬ 
ing a deeply moved air I said: 

“Yes, such has been my lot from very childhood! 
All have read upon my countenance the marks of 
bad qualities, which were not existent; but they were 
assumed to exist—and they were born. I was mod¬ 
est—I was accused of slyness: I grew secretive. 
I profoundly felt both good and evil—no one car¬ 
essed me, all insulted me: I grew vindictive. I 
was gloomy—other children merry, and talkative; I 
felt myself higher than they—I was rated lower: 
I grew envious. I was prepared to love the whole 
world—no one understood me: I learned to hate. 
My colourless youth flowed by in conflict with my¬ 
self and the world; fearing ridicule, I buried my 
best feelings in the depths of my heart, and there 
they died. I spoke the truth—I was not believed: 
I began to deceive. Having acquired a thorough 
knowledge of the world and the springs of society, 
I grew skilled in the science of life; and I saw how 
others without skill were happy, enjoying gratui¬ 
tously the advantages which I so unweariedly 
sought. Then despair was born within my breast 


PRINCESS MARY 193 

—not that despair which is cured at the muzzle of 
a pistol, but the cold, powerless despair concealed 
beneath the mask of amiability and a good-natured 
smile. I became a moral cripple. One half of my 
soul ceased to exist; it dried up, evaporated, died, 
and I cut it off and cast it from me. The other half 
moved and lived—at the service of all; but it re¬ 
mained unobserved, because no one knew that the 
half which had perished had ever existed. But, 
now, the memory of it has been awakened within 
me by you, and I have read you its epitaph. To 
many, epitaphs in general seem ridiculous, but to 
me they do not; especially when I remember what 
reposes beneath them. I will not, however, ask 
you to share my opinion. If this outburst seems 
absurd to you, I pray you, laugh! I forewarn 
you that your laughter will not cause me the least 
chagrin.” 

At that moment I met her eyes: tears were well¬ 
ing in them. Her arm, as it leaned upon mine, 
was trembling; her cheeks were aflame; she pitied 
me! Sympathy—a feeling to which all. women 
yield so easily, had dug its talons into her inexperi¬ 
enced heart. During the whole excursion she was 
preoccupied and did not flirt with any one—and 
that is a great sign! 

We arrived at the hollow; the ladies left their 
cavaliers, but she did not let go my arm. The 
witticisms of the local dandies failed to make her 
laugh; the steepness of the declivity beside which 
she was standing caused her no alarm, although the 
other ladies uttered shrill cries and shut their eyes. 

On the way back, I did not renew our melan¬ 
choly conversation, but to my idle questions and 
jests she gave short and absent-minded answers. 


i 9 4 A HERO OF OUR TIME 

“Have you ever been in love?” I asked her at 
length. 

She looked at me intently, shook her head and 
again fell into a reverie. It was evident that she 
was wishing to say something, but did not know 
how to begin. Her breast heaved. . . . And, in¬ 
deed, that was but natural! A muslin sleeve is 
a weak protection, and an electric spark was run¬ 
ning from my arm to hers. Almost all passions 
have their beginning in that way, and frequently 
we are very much deceived in thinking that a woman 
loves us for our moral and physical merits; of 
course, these prepare and predispose the heart for 
the reception of the holy flame, but for all that 
it is the first touch that decides the matter. 

“I have been very amiable today, have I not?” 
Princess Mary said to me, with a forced smile, 
when we had returned from the walk. 

We separated. 

She is dissatisfied with herself. She accuses 
herself of coldness. . . . Oh, that is the first, the 
chief triumph! 

Tomorrow, she will be feeling a desire to recom¬ 
pense me. I know the whole proceeding by heart 
already—that is what is so tiresome! 


Chapter IX 


12 th June. 


I have seen Vera today. She has begun to 
plague me with her jealousy. Princess Mary has 
taken it into her head, it seems, to confide the se¬ 
crets of her heart to Vera: a happy choice, it must 
be confessed! 

“I can guess what all this is leading to,” said 
Vera to me. “You had better simply tell me at 
once that you are in love with her.” 

“But supposing I am not in love with her?’’ 

“Then why run after her, disturb her, agitate 
her imagination! . . . Oh, I know you well! Lis¬ 
ten—if you wish me to believe you, come to 
Kislovodsk in a week’s time; we shad be moving 
thither the day after tomorrow. Princess Mary 
will remain here longer. Engage lodgings next 
door to us. We shall be living in the large house 
near the spring, on the mezzanine floor. Princess 
Ligovski will be below us, and next door there 
is a house belonging to the same landlord, which 
has not yet been taken. . . . Will you come ?” . . . 

I gave my promise, and this very same day I 
have sent to engage the lodgings.. 

Grushnitski came to me at six o’clock and an¬ 
nounced that his uniform would be ready tomorrow, 
just in time for him to go to the ball in it. 

“At last I shall dance with her the whole eve- 
195 


196 A HERO OF OUR TIME 

ning through. . . . And then I shall talk to my 
heart’s content,” he added. 

“When is the ball?” 

“Why, tomorrow! Do you not know, then? 
A great festival—and the local authorities have un¬ 
dertaken to organize it.” . . . 

“Let us go to the boulevard.” . . . 

“Not on any account, in this nasty cloak.” . . . 

“What! Have you ceased to love it?” . . . 

I went out alone, and, meeting Princess Mary 
I asked her to keep the mazurka for me. She 
seemed surprised and delighted. 

“I thought that you would only dance from neces¬ 
sity as on the last occasion,” she said, with a very 
charming smile. . . . 

She does not seem to notice Grushnitski’s ab¬ 
sence at all. 

“You will be agreeably surprised tomorrow,” I 
said to her. 

“At what?” 

“That is a secret. . . . You will find it out 
yourself, at the ball.” 

I finished up the evening at Princess Ligovski’s; 
there were no other guests present except Vera 
and a certain very amusing, little old gentleman. 
I was in good spirits, and improvised various 
extraordinary stories. Princess Mary sat opposite 
me and listened to my nonsense with such deep, 
strained, and even tender attention that I grew 
ashamed of myself. What had become of her 
vivacity, her coquetry, her caprices, her haughty 
mien, her contemptuous smile, her absent-minded 
glance? . . . 

Vera noticed everything, and her sickly coun¬ 
tenance was a picture of profound grief. She was 


PRINCESS MARY 197 

sitting in the shadow by the window, buried in a 
wide arm-chair. ... I pitied her. 

Then I related the whole dramatic story of our 
acquaintanceship, our love—concealing it all, of 
course under fictitious names. 

So vividly did I portray my tenderness, my anx¬ 
ieties, my raptures; in so favourable a light did 
I exhibit her actions and her character, that invol¬ 
untarily she had to forgive me for my flirtation with 
Princess Mary. 

She rose, sat down beside us, and brightened 
up . . . and it was only at two o’clock in the morn¬ 
ing that we remembered that the doctors had or¬ 
dered her to go to bed at eleven. 


Chapter X 


I ^th June. 

Half an hour before the ball, Grushnitski pre¬ 
sented himself to me in the full splendour of the uni¬ 
form of the Line infantry. Attached to his third 
button was a little bronze chain, on which hung a 
double lorgnette. Epaulettes of incredible size 
were bent backwards and upwards in the shape of a 
cupid’s wings; his boots creaked; in his left hand he 
held cinnamon-coloured kid gloves and a forage¬ 
cap, and with his right he kept every moment twist¬ 
ing his frizzled tuft of hair up into tiny curls. 
Complacency and at the same time a certain diffi¬ 
dence were depicted upon his face. His festal ap¬ 
pearance and proud gait would have made me burst 
out laughing, if such a proceeding had been in ac¬ 
cordance with my intentions. 

He threw his cap and gloves on the table and 
began to pull down the skirts of his coat and to 
put himself to rights before the looking-glass. An 
enormous black handkerchief, which was twisted 
into a very high stiffener for his cravat, and the 
bristles of which supported his chin, stuck out an 
inch over his collar. It seemed to him to be rather 
small, and he drew it up as far as his ears. As a 
result of that hard work—the collar of his uniform 
being very tight and uncomfortable—he grew red 
in the face. 


198 


PRINCESS MARY 199 

“They say you have been courting my princess 
terribly these last few days?” he said, rather care¬ 
lessly and without looking at me. 

“ Where are we fools to drink teal ” 1 I an¬ 
swered, repeating a pet phrase of one of the clever¬ 
est rogues of past times, once celebrated in song by 
Pushkin. 

“Tell me, does my uniform fit me well? . . . 
Oh, the cursed Jew! . . . How it cuts me under 
the armpits! . . . Have you got any scent?” 

“Good gracious, what more do you want? You 
are reeking of rose pomade as it is.” 

“Never mind. Give me some.” . . . 

He poured half a phial over his cravat, his 
pocket-handkerchief, his sleeves. 

“You are going to dance?” he asked. 

“I think not.” 

“I am afraid I shall have to lead off the mazurka 
with Princess Mary, and I scarcely know a single 
figure.” ... 

“Have you asked her to dance the mazurka with 
you?” 

“Not yet” . . . 

“Mind you are not forestalled.” . . . 

“Just so, indeed!” he said, striking his forehead. 
“Good-bye. ... I will go and wait for her at the 
entrance.” 

He seized his forage-cap and ran. 

Half an hour later I also set off. The street was 
dark and deserted. Around the assembly rooms, or 
inn—whichever you prefer—people were thronging. 
The windows were lighted up, the strains of the 
regimental band were borne to me on the eve- 

iA popular phrase, equivalent to: “How should I think of 
doing such a thing?” 


200 A HERO OF OUR TIME 

ning breeze. I walked slowly; I felt melancholy. 

“Can it be possible,” I thought, “that my sole 
mission on earth is to destroy the hopes of others? 
Ever since I began to live and to act, it seems al¬ 
ways to have been my fate to play a part in the 
ending of other people’s dramas, as if, but for me, 
no one could either die or fall into despair! I 
have been the indispensable person of the fifth act; 
unwillingly I have played the pitiful part of an 
executioner or a traitor. What object has fate 
had in this? . . . Surely, I have not been appointed 
by destiny to be an author of middle-class tragedies 
and family romances, or to be a collaborator with 
the purveyor of stories—for the ‘Reader’s Li¬ 
brary, 1 for example? . . . How can I tell? . . . 
Are there not many people who, in beginning life, 
think to end it like Lord Byron or Alexander the 
Great, and, nevertheless, remain Titular Council¬ 
lors 2 all their days?” 

Entering the saloon, I concealed myself in a 
crowd of men, and began to make my observations. 

Grushnitski was standing beside Princess Mary 
and saying something with great warmth. She 
was listening to him absent-mindedly and looking 
about her, her fan laid to her lips. Impatience 
was depicted upon her face, her eyes were search¬ 
ing all around for somebody. I went softly be¬ 
hind them in order to listen to their conversation. 

“You torture me, Princess!” Grushnitski was 
saying. “You have changed dreadfully since I saw 
you last.” . . . 

“You, too, have changed,” she answered, casting 

1 Published by Senkovski, and under the censorship of the 
Government. 

2 Civil servants of the ninth (the lowest) class. 


PRINCESS MARY 201 

a rapid glance at him, in which he was unable to 
detect the latent sneer. 

“I! Changed? . . . Oh, never! You know that 
such a thing is impossible! Whoever has seen you 
once will bear your divine image with him for ever.” 

“Stop.” . . 

“But why will you not let me say tonight what 
you have so often listened to with condescension 
—and just recently, too?” . . . 

“Because I do not like repetitions,” she an¬ 
swered, laughing. 

“Oh, I have been bitterly mistaken! ... I 
thought, fool that I was, that these epaulettes, at 
least, would give me the right to hope. . . . No, 
it would have been better for me to have remained 
for ever in that contemptible soldier’s cloak, to 
which, probably, I was indebted for your atten¬ 
tion.” . . . 

“As a matter of fact, the cloak is much more 
becoming to you.” . . . 

At that moment I went up and bowed to Prin¬ 
cess Mary. She blushed a little, and went on rap¬ 
idly : 

“Is it not true, Monsieur Pechorin, that the grey 
cloak suits Monsieur Grushnitski much bet¬ 
ter?” .. . 

“I do not agree with you,” I answered: “he is 
more youthful-looking still in his uniform.” 

That was a blow which Grushnitski could not 
bear: like all boys, he has pretensions to being an 
old man; he thinks that the deep traces of passions 
upon his countenance take the place of the lines 
scored by Time. He cast a furious glance at me, 
stamped his foot, and took himself off. 

“Confess now,” I said to Princess Mary: “that 


202 A HERO OF OUR TIME 

although he has always been most ridiculous, yet 
not so long ago he seemed to you to be inter¬ 
esting ... in the grey cloak?” . . . 

She cast her eyes down and made no reply. 

Grushnitski followed the Princess about during 
the whole evening and danced either with her or 
vis-a-vis. He devoured her with his eyes, sighed, 
and wearied her with prayers and reproaches. 
After the third quadrille she had begun to hate 
him. 

“I did not expect this from you,” he said, 
coming up to me and taking my arm. 

“What?” 

“You are going to dance the mazurka with 
her?” he asked in a solemn tone. “She admitted 
it.” . . . 

“Well, what then? It is not a secret, is it?” 

“Of course not. ... I ought to have expected 
such a thing from that chit—that flirt. ... I will 
have my revenge, though!” 

“You should lay the blame on your cloak, or 
your epaulettes, but why accuse her? What fault 
is it of hers that she does not like you any 
longer?” . . . 

‘"But why give me hopes?” 

“Why did you hope? To desire and to strive 
after something—that I can understand! But who 
ever hopes?” 

“You have won the wager, but not quite,” he 
said, with a malignant smile. 

The mazurka began. Grushnitski chose no one 
but the Princess, other cavaliers chose her every 
minute: obviously a conspiracy against me—all the 
better! She wants to talk to me, they are prevent¬ 
ing her—she will want to twice as much. 


V 


PRINCESS MARY 203 

I squeezed her hand once or twice; the second 
time she drew it away without saying a word. 

“I shall sleep badly tonight,” she said to me 
when the mazurka was over. 

“Grushnitski is to blame for that.” 

“Oh, no!” 

And her face became so pensive, so sad, that I 
promised myself that I would not fail to kiss her 
hand that evening. 

The guests began to disperse. As I was handing 
Princess Mary into her carriage, I rapidly pressed 
her little hand to my lips. The night was dark 
and nobody could see. 

I returned to the saloon very well satisfied with 
myself. 

The young men, Grushnitski amongst them, were 
having supper at the large table. As I came in, 
they all fell silent: evidently they had been talking 
about me. Since the last ball many of them have 
been sulky with me, especially the captain of dra¬ 
goons; and now, it seems, a hostile gang is actually 
being formed against me, under the command of 
Grushnitski. He wears such a proud and courag¬ 
eous air. . . 

I am very glad; I love enemies, though not in 
the Christian sense. They amuse me, stir my 17 
blood. To be always on one’s guard, to catch 
every glance, the meaning of every word, to guess 
intentions, to crush conspiracies, to pretend to be 
deceived and suddenly wth one blow to overthrow 
the whole immense and laboriously constructed edi¬ 
fice of cunning and design—that is what I call life. 

During supper Grushnitski kept whispering and 
exchanging winks with the captain of dragoons. 


Chapter XI 


i\th June. 

Vera and her husband left this morning for Kis¬ 
lovodsk. I met their carriage as I was walking to 
Princess Ligovski’s. Vera nodded to me: reproach 
was in her glance. 

Who is to blame, then? Why will she not give 
me an opportunity of seeing her alone? Love is 
like fire—if not fed it dies out. Perchance, jeal¬ 
ousy will accomplish what my entreaties have failed 
to do. 

I stayed a whole hour at Princess Ligovski’s. 
Mary has not been out, she is ill. In the evening 
she was not on the boulevard. The newly formed 
gang, armed with lorgnettes, has in very fact as¬ 
sumed a menacing aspect. I am glad that Prin¬ 
cess Mary is ill; they might be guilty of some im¬ 
pertinence towards her. Grushnitski goes about 
with dishevelled locks, and wears an appearance of 
despair: he is evidently afflicted, as a matter of 
fact; his vanity especially has been injured. But, 
you see, there are some people in whom even des¬ 
pair is diverting! . . . 

On my way home I noticed that something was 
lacking. I have not seen her! She is ill! Surely 
I have not fallen in love with her in real ear¬ 
nest? . . . What nonsense! 

204 


Chapter XII 


i$tk June. 

At eleven o’clock in the morning—the hour at 
which Princess Ligovski is usually perspiring in the 
Ermolov baths—I walked past her house. Prin¬ 
cess Mary was sitting pensively at the window; on 
seeing me she sprang up. 

I entered the ante-room, there was nobody there, 
and, availing myself of the freedom afforded by 
the local customs, I made my way, unannounced, 
into the drawing-room. 

Princess Mary’s charming countenance was 
shrouded with a dull pallor. She was standing by 
the pianoforte, leaning one hand on the back of 
an arm-chair; her hand was very faintly trembling. 
I went up to her softly and said: 

“You are angry with me?” . . . 

She lifted a deep, languid glance upon me and 
shook her head. Her lips were about to utter 
something, but failed; her eyes filled with tears; 
she sank into the arm-chair and buried her face in 
her hands. 

“What is the matter with you?” I said, taking 
her hand. 

“You do not respect me! . . . Oh, leave 
me!” . . . 

I took a few steps. . . . She drew herself up 
in the chair, her eyes sparkled. 

205 


206 a HERO OF OUR TIME 

I stopped still, took hold of the handle of the 
door, and said: 

“Forgive me, Princess. I have acted like a 
madman. ... It will not happen another time; I 
shall see to that. . . . But how can you know 
what has been taking place hitherto within my soul? 
That you will never learn, and so much the better 
for you. Farewell.” 

As I was going out, I seemed to hear her weep¬ 
ing. 

I wandered on foot about the environs of Mount 
Mashuk till evening, fatigued myself terribly and, 
on arriving home, flung myself on my bed, utterly 
exhausted. 

Werner came to see me. 

“Is it true,” he asked, “that you are going to 
marry Princess Mary?” 

“What?” 

“The whole town is saying so. All my patients 
are occupied.with that important piece of news; but 
you know what these patients are: they know every¬ 
thing !” 

“This is one of Grushnitski’s tricks,” I said to 
myself. 

“To prove the falsity of these rumours, doctor, 
I may mention, as a secret, that I am moving to 
Kislovodsk tomorrow.” , . . 

“And Princess Mary, too?” 

“No, she remains here another week.” 

“So you are not going to get married?” . . . 

“Doctor, doctor! Look at me! Am I in the 
least like a bridegroom, or any such thing?” 

“I am not saying so. . . . But you know there 
are occasions . . .” he added, with a crafty smile 
—“in which an honourable man is obliged to marry, 


PRINCESS MARY 207 

and there are mothers who, to say the least, do not 
prevent such occasions. . . . And so, as a friend, I 
should advise you to be more cautious. The air of 
these parts is very dangerous. How many hand¬ 
some young men, worthy of a better fate, have I 
not seen departing from here straight to the al¬ 
tar! . . . Would you believe me, they were even 
going to find a wife for me! That is to say, one 
person was—a lady belonging to this district, who 
had a very pale daughter. I had the misfortune 
to tell her that the latter’s colour would be restored 
after wedlock, and then with tears of gratitude she 
offered me her daughter’s hand and the whole of 
her own fortune—fifty souls, 1 I think. But I re¬ 
plied that I was unfit for such an honour.” 

Werner left, fully convinced that he had put me 
on my guard. 

I gathered from his words that various ugly ru¬ 
mours were already being spread about the town 
on the subject of Princess Mary and myself: Grush- 
nitski shall smart for this! 


1 i. e. serfs. 


Chapter XIII 


18 th June. 


I have been in Kislovodsk three days now. 
Every day I see Vera at the well and out walk¬ 
ing. In the morning, when I awake, I sit by my 
window and direct my lorgnette at her balcony. 
She has already been dressed long ago, and is wait¬ 
ing for the signal agreed upon. We meet, as 
though unexpectedly, in the garden which slopes 
down from our houses to the well. The life-giv¬ 
ing mountain air has brought back her colour and 
her strength. Not for nothing is Narzan called 
the “Spring of Heroes.” The inhabitants aver 
that the air of Kislovodsk predisposes the heart to 
love and that all the romances which have had their 
beginning at the foot of Mount Mashuk find their 
consummation here. And, in very fact, everything 
here breathes of solitude; everything has an air of 
secrecy—the thick shadows of the linden avenues, 
bending over the torrent which falls, noisy and 
foaming, from Hag to flag and cleaves itself a way 
between the mountains now becoming clad with ver¬ 
dure—the mist-filled, silent.ravines, with their rami¬ 
fications straggling away in all directions—the 
freshness of the aromatic air, laden with the fra¬ 
grance of the tall southern grasses and the white 
acacia—the never-ceasing, sweetly-slumberous bab¬ 
ble of the cool brooks, which, meeting at the end of 
208 


PRINCESS MARY 209 

the valley, flow along in friendly emulation, and 
finally fling themselves into the Podkumok. On 
this side, the ravine is wider and becomes converted 
into a verdant dell, through which winds the dusty 
road. Every time I look at it, I seem to see a 
carriage coming along and a rosy little face looking 
out of the carriage-window. Many carriages have 
already driven by—but still there is no sign of that 
particular one. The village which lies behind the 
fortress has become populous. In the restaurant, 
built upon a hill a few paces distant from my lodg¬ 
ings, lights are beginning to flash in the evening 
through the double rows of poplars; noise and the 
jingling of glasses resound till late at night. 

In no place are such quantities of Kakhetian wine 
and mineral waters drunk as here. 

“And many are willing to mix the two, 

But that is a thing I never do." 

Every day Grushnitski and his gang are to be 
found brawling in the inn, and he has almost ceased 
to greet me. 

He only arrived yesterday, and has already suc¬ 
ceeded in quarrelling with three old men who were 
going to take their places in the baths before him. 

Decidedly, his misfortunes are developing a war¬ 
like spirit within him. 


Chapter XIV 


22nd June. 

At last they have arrived. I was sitting by the 
window when I heard the clattering of their car¬ 
riage. My heart throbbed. . . . What does it 
mean? Can it be that I am in love? ... I am 
so stupidly constituted that such a thing might be 
expected of me. 

I dined at their house. Princess Ligovski 
looked at me with much tenderness, and did not 
leave her daughter’s side ... a bad sign! On 
the other hand, Vera is jealous of me in regard to 
Princess Mary—however, I have been striving for 
that good fortune. What will not a woman do in 
order to chagrin her rival? I remember that once 
a woman loved me simply because I was in love with 
another woman. 'There is nothing more paradox¬ 
ical than the female mind; it is difficult to convince 
a woman of anything; they have to be led into con¬ 
vincing themselves. The order of the proofs by 
which they demolish their -prejudices is most orig¬ 
inal; to learn their dialectic it is necessary to over¬ 
throw in your own mind every scholastic rule of 
logic. For example, the usual way: 

“This man loves me; but I am married: there¬ 
fore I must not love him.” 

The woman’s way: 


PRINCESS MARY 211 

“I must not love him, because I am married; but 
he loves me—therefore’* . . . 

A few dots here, because reason has no more 
to. say. But, generally, there is something to be 
said by the tongue, and the eyes, and, after these, 
the heart—if there is such a thing. 

What if these notes should one day meet a 
woman’s eye? 

“Slander!” she will exclaim indignantly. 

Ever since poets have written and women have 
read them (for which the poets should be most 
deeply grateful) women have been called angels so 
many times that, in very truth, in their simplicity 
of soul, they have believed the compliment, for¬ 
getting that, for money, the same poets have glori¬ 
fied Nero as a demigod. . . . 

It would be unreasonable were I to speak of 
women with such malignity—I who have loved 
nothing else in the world—I who have- always been 
ready to sacrifice for their sake ease, ambition, life 
itself. . . . But, you see, I am not endeavouring, in 
a fit of vexation and injured vanity, to pluck from 
them the magic veil through which only an accus¬ 
tomed glance can penetrate. No, all that I say 
about them is but the result of 

“A mind which coldly hath observed, 

A heart which bears the stamp of woe” x 

Women ought to wish that all men knew them 
as well as I because I have loved them a hundred 
times better since I have ceased to be afraid of them 
and have comprehended their little weaknesses. 

By the way: the other day, Werner compared 

1 Pushkin: Eugene Onyegin. 


212 A HERO OF OUR TIME 

women to the enchanted forest of which Tasso tells 
in his “Jerusalem Delivered.” 1 

“So soon as you approach,” he said, “from all 
directions terrors, such as I pray Heaven may pre¬ 
serve us from will take wing at you: duty, pride, 
decorum, public opinion, ridicule, contempt. . . . 
You must simply go straight on without looking at 
them; gradually the monsters disappear, and, be¬ 
fore you, opens a bright and quiet glade, in the 
midst of which blooms the green myrtle. On the 
other hand, woe to you if, at the first steps, your 
heart trembles and you turn back!” 

1 Canto xviii, io: 

“Quinci al bosco f invia, dove cotanti 
Son fantasmi ingannevoli e bugiardi” . . • 


Chapter XV 


24 th June . 

This evening has been fertile in events. About 
three versts from Kislovodsk, in the gorge through 
which the Podkumok flows, there is a cliff called 
the Ring. It is a naturally formed gate, rising up¬ 
on a lofty hill and through it the setting sun throws 
its last flaming glance upon the world. A numer¬ 
ous cavalcade set off thither to gaze at the sunset 
through the rock-window. To tell the truth, not 
one of them was thinking about the sun. I rode 
beside Princess Mary. On the way home, we had 
to ford the Podkumok. Mountain streams, even 
the smallest, are dangerous; especially so, because 
the bottom is a perfect kaleidoscope: it changes 
every day owing to the pressure of the current; 
where yesterday there was a rock, today there is a 
cavity. I took Princess Mary’s horse by the bridle 
and led it into the water, which came no higher than 
its knees. We began to move slowly in a slanting 
direction against the current. It is a well-known 
fact that, in crossing rapid streamlets, you should 
never look at the water, because, if you do, your 
head begins to whirl directly. I forgot to warn 
Princess Mary of that. 

We had reached the middle and were right in 
the vortex, when suddenly she reeled in her saddle. 

“I feel ill!” she said in a faint voice. 

213 


214 a HERO OF OUR TIME 

I bent over to her rapidly and threw my arm 
around her supple waist. 

“Look up!” I whispered. “It is nothing; just 
be brave! I am with you.” 

She grew better; she was about to disengage her¬ 
self from my arm, but I clasped her tender, soft 
figure in a still closer embrace; my cheek almost 
touched hers, from which was wafted flame. 

“What are you doing to me? . . . Oh, 
Heaven!” . . . 

I paid no attention to her alarm and confusion, 
and my lips touched her tender cheek. She shud¬ 
dered, but said nothing. We were riding behind 
the others: nobody saw us. 

When we made our way out on the bank, the 
horses were all put to the trot. Princess Mary 
kept hers back; I remained beside her. It was 
evident that my silence was making her uneasy, but 
I swore to myself that I would not speak a single 
word—out of curiosity. I wanted to see how she 
would extricate herself from that embarrassing 
position. 

“Either you despise me, or you love me very 
much!” she said at length, and there were tears 
in her voice. “Perhaps you want to laugh at me, 
to excite my soul and then to abandon me. . . . 
That would be so base, so vile, that the mere sup¬ 
position . . . Oh, no!” she added, in a voice of 
tender trustfulness; “there is nothing in me which 
would preclude respect; is it not so? Your pre¬ 
sumptuous action ... I must, I must forgive you 
for it, because I permitted it. . . . Answer, speak, 
I want to hear your voice!” . . . 

There was such womanly impatience in her last 
words that, involuntarily, I smiled; happily it was 


PRINCESS MARY 215 

beginning to grow dusk. ... I made no answer. 

“You are silent!” she continued; “you wish, per¬ 
haps, that I should be the first to tell you that 
I love you.” ... 

I remained silent. 

“Is that what you wish?” she continued, turn¬ 
ing rapidly towards me. . . . There was some¬ 
thing terrible in the determination of her glance and 
voice. 

“Why?” I answered, shrugging my shoulders. 

She struck her horse with her riding-whip and 
set off at full gallop along the narrow, dangerous 
road. It all happened so quickly that I was 
scarcely able to overtake her, and then only by the 
time she had joined the rest of the company. 

All the way home she was continually talking 
and laughing. There was something feverish in 
her movements; not once did she look in my direc¬ 
tion. Everybody observed her unusual gaiety. 
Princess Ligovski rejoiced inwardly as she looked at 
her daughter. However, the latter simply has a 
fit of nerves: she will spend a sleepless night, and 
will weep. 

This thought affords me measureless delight: 
there are moments when I understand the Vam¬ 
pire. . . . And yet I am reputed to be a good fel¬ 
low, and I strive to earn that designation! 

On dismounting, the ladies went into Princess 
Ligovski’s house. I was excited, and I galloped 
to the mountains in order to dispel the thoughts 
which had thronged into my head. The dewy eve¬ 
ning breathed an intoxicating coolness. The moon 
was rising from behind the dark summits. Each 
step of my unshod horse resounded hollowly in the 
silence of the gorges. I watered the horse at the 


216 A HERO OF OUR TIME 

waterfall, and then, after greedily inhaling once or 
twice the fresh air of the southern night, I set off 
on my way back. I rode through the village. 
The lights in the windows were beginning to go out; 
the sentries on the fortress-rampart and the Cos¬ 
sacks in the surrounding pickets were calling out in 
drawling tones to one another. 

In one of the village houses, built at the edge of 
a ravine, I noticed an extraordinary illumination. 
At times, discordant murmurs and shouting could 
be heard, proving that a military carouse was in full 
swing. I dismounted 'and crept up to the window. 
The shutter had not been made fast and I could 
see the banqueters and catch what they were saying. 
They were talking about me. 

The captain of dragoons, flushed with wine, 
struck the table with his fist, demanding attention. 

“Gentlemen!” he said, “this won’t do ! Pechorin 
must be taught a lesson! These Petersburg fledg¬ 
lings always carry their heads high until they get a 
slap in the face! He thinks that because he always 
wears clean gloves and polished boots he is the only 
one who has ever lived in society. And what a 
haughty smile! All the same, I am convinced that 
he is a coward—yes, a coward!” 

“I think so too,” said Grushnitski. “He is fond 
of getting himself out of trouble by pretending to 
be only having a joke. I once gave him such a talk¬ 
ing to that any one else in his place would have cut 
me to pieces on the spot. But Pechorin turned it 
all to the ridiculous side. I, of course, did not call 
him out because that was his business, but he did not 
care to have anything more to do with it.” 

“Grushnitski is angry with him for having cap¬ 
tured Princess Mary from him,” somebody said. 


PRINCESS MARY 217 

“That’s a new idea! It is true I did run after 
Princess Mary a little, but I left off at once because 
I do not want to get married; and it is against my 
rules to compromise a girl.” 

“Yes, I assure you that he is a coward of the first 
water, I mean Pechorin, not Grushnitski—but 
Grushnitski is a fine fellow, and, besides, he is my 
true friend!” the captain of dragoons went on. 

“Gentlemen! Nobody here stands up for him? 
Nobody? So much the better! Would you like 
to put his courage to the test? It would be amus¬ 
ing.” . . . 

“We would; but how?” 

“Listen here, then: Grushnitski in particular is 
angry with him—therefore to Grushnitski falls the 
chief part. He will pick a quarrel over some silly 
trifle or other, and will challenge Pechorin to a 
duel. . . . Wait a bit; here is where the joke 
comes in. . . . He will challenge him to a duel; 
very well! The whole proceeding—challenge, 
preparations, conditions—will be as solemn and 
awe-inspiring as possible—I will see to that. I will 
be your second, my poor friend! Very well! Only 
here is the rub; we will put no bullets in the pistols. 
I can answer for it that Pechorin will turn coward 
—I will place them six paces apart, devil take it! 
Are you agreed, gentlemen?” 

“Splendid idea! . . . Agreed! . . . And why 
not?” . . . came from all sides. 

“And you, Grushnitski ?” 

Tremblingly I awaited Grushnitski’s answer. I 
was filled with cold rage at the thought that, but 
for an accident, I might have made myself the 
laughing-stock of those fools. If Grushnitski had 
not agreed, I should have thrown myself upon his 


218 a HERO OF OUR TIME 

neck; but, after an interval of silence, he rose from 
his place, extended his hand to the captain, and said 
very gravely: 

“Very well, I agree 1 ” 

It would be difficult to describe the enthusiasm of 
that honourable company. 

I returned home, agitated by two different feel¬ 
ings. The first was sorrow. 

“Why do they all hate me?” I thought—“why? 
Have I affronted any one? No. Can it be that I 
am one of those men the mere sight of whom is 
enough to create animosity?” 

And I felt a venomous rage gradually filling my 
soul. 

“Have a care, Mr. Grushnitski!” I said, walk¬ 
ing up and down the room: “I am not to be jested 
with like this! You may pay dearly for the ap¬ 
probation of your foolish comrades. I am not 
your toy!” . . . 

I got no sleep that night. By daybreak I was 
as yellow as an orange. 

In the morning I met Princess Mary at the well. 

“You are ill?” she said, looking intently at me. 

“I did not sleep last night.” 

“Nor I either. ... I was accusing you . . . 
perhaps groundlessly. But explain yourself, I can 
forgive you everything.” . . . 

“Everything?”. . . 

“Everything . . . only speak the truth . . . 
and be quick. ... You see, I have been thinking 
a good deal, trying to explain, to justify, your be¬ 
haviour. Perhaps you are afraid of opposition on 
the part of my relations . . . that will not mat¬ 
ter. When they learn”. . . 

Her voice shook. 


PRINCESS MARY 219 

“I will win them over by entreaties. Or, is it 
your own position? . . . But you know that I can 
sacrifice everything for the sake of the man I love. 
. . . Oh, answer quickly—have pity. ... You 
do not despise me—do you?” 

She seized my hand. 

Princess Ligovski was walking in front of us 
with Vera’s husband, and had not seen anything; 
but we might have been observed by some of the 
invalids who were strolling about—the most in¬ 
quisitive gossips of all inquisitive folk—and I 
rapidly disengaged my hand from her passionate 
pressure. 

“I will tell you the whole truth,” I answered. 

“I will not justify myself, nor explain my actions: 
I do not love you.” 

Her lips grew slightly pale. 

“Leave me,” she said, in a scarcely audible 
voice. 

I shrugged my shoulders, turned round, and 
walked away. 


Chapter XVI 


2 $th June . 

I sometimes despise myself. ... Is not that 
the reason why I despise others also? ... I have 
grown incapable of noble impulses; I am afraid 
of appearing ridiculous to myself. In my place, 
another would have offered Princess Mary son 
cceur et sa fortune; but over me the word “marry” 
has a kind of magical power. However passion¬ 
ately I love a woman, if she only gives me to feel 
that I have to marry her—then farewell, love! 
My heart is turned to stone, and nothing will 
warm it anew. I am prepared for any other sac¬ 
rifice but that; my life twenty times over, nay, 
my honour I would stake on the fortune of a card 
. . . but my freedom I will never sell. Why do 
I prize it so highly? What is there in it for me? 
For what am I preparing myself? What do I 
hope for from the future? ... In truth, ab¬ 
solutely nothing. It is a kind of innate dread, an 
inexplicable prejudice. . . . There are people, you 
know, who have an unaccountable dread of 
spiders, beetles, mice. . . . Shall I confess it? 
When I was but a child, a certain old woman told 
my fortune to my mother. She predicted for me 
death from a wicked wife. I was profoundly 
struck by her words at the time: an irresistible 
repugnance to marriage was born within my soul. 

220 


221 


PRINCESS MARY 

. . . Meanwhile, something tells me that her pre¬ 
diction will be realized; I will try, at all events, to 
arrange that it shall be realized as late in life as 
possible. 


Chapter XVII 


2 6th June. 


Yesterday, the conjurer Apfelbaum arrived 
here. A long placard made its appearance on the 
door of the restaurant, informing the most re¬ 
spected public that the above-mentioned marvel¬ 
lous conjurer, acrobat, chemist, and optician would 
have the honour to give a magnificent performance 
on the present day at eight o’clock in the evening, 
in the saloon of the Nobles’ Club (in other words, 
the restaurant) ; tickets—two rubles and a half 
each. 

Every one intends to go and see the marvellous 
conjurer; even Princess Ligovski has taken a ticket 
for herself, in spite of her daughter being ill. 

After dinner today, I walked past Vera’s win¬ 
dows; she was sitting by herself on the balcony. 
A note fell at my feet: 

“Come to me at ten o’clock this evening by the 
large staircase. My husband has gone to Pyati¬ 
gorsk and will not return before tomorrow morn¬ 
ing. My servants and maids will not be at home; 
I have distributed tickets to all of them, and to 
the princess’s servants as well. I await you; come 
without fail.” 

“Aha!” I said to myself, “so then it has turned 
out at last as I thought it would.” 

At eight o’clock I went to see the conjurer. 

2 22 


PRINCESS MARY 223 

The public assembled before the stroke of nine. 
The performance began. On the back rows of 
chairs I recognized Vera’s and Princess Ligovski’s 
menservants and maids. They were all there, 
every single one. Grushnitski, with his lorgnette, 
was sitting in the front row, and the conjurer had 
recourse to him every time he needed a handker¬ 
chief, a watch, a ring and so forth. 

For some time past, Grushnitski has ceased to 
bow to me, and today he has looked at me rather 
insolently once or twice. It will all be remem¬ 
bered to him when we come to settle our scores. 

Before ten o’clock had struck, I stood up and 
went out. 

It was dark outside, pitch dark. Cold, heavy 
clouds were lying on the summit of the surround¬ 
ing mountains, and only at rare intervals did the 
dying breeze rustle the tops of the poplars which 
surrounded the restaurant. People were crowd¬ 
ing at the windows. I went down the mountain 
and, turning in under the gate, I hastened my pace. 
Suddenly it seemed to me that somebody was fol¬ 
lowing my steps. I stopped and looked round. 
It was impossible to make out anything in the dark¬ 
ness. However, out of caution, I walked round 
the house, as if taking a stroll. Passing Princess 
Mary’s windows, I again heard steps behind me; 
a man wrapped in a cloak ran by me. That ren¬ 
dered me uneasy, but I crept up to the flight of 
steps, and hastily mounted the dark staircase. A 
door opened, and a little hand seized mine. . . . 

“Nobody has seen you?” said Vera in a whisper, 
clinging to me. 

“Nobody.” 

“Now do you believe that I love you? Oh! 


224 A HERO OF OUR TIME 

I have long hesitated, long tortured myself. . . . 
But you can do anything you like with me.” 

Her heart was beating violently, her hands were 
cold as ice. She broke out into complaints and 
jealous reproaches. She demanded that I should 
confess everything to her, saying that she would 
bear my faithlessness with submission, because her 
sole desire was that I should be happy. I did not 
quite believe that, but I calmed her with oaths, 
promises and so on. 

“So you will not marry Mary? You do not love 
her? . . . But she thinks . . . Do you know, 
she is madly in love with you, poor girl!”. . . 


About two o’clock in the morning I opened the 
window and, tying two shawls together, I let my¬ 
self down from the upper balcony to the lower, 
holding on by the pillar. A light was still burn¬ 
ing in Princess Mary’s room. Something drew me 
towards that window. The curtain was not quite 
drawn, and I was able to cast a curious glance into 
the interior of the room. Mary was sitting on 
her bed, her hands crossed upon her knees; her 
thick hair was gathered up under a lace-frilled 
nightcap; her white shoulders were covered by a 
large crimson kerchief, and her little feet were 
hidden in a pair of many-coloured Persian slippers. 
She was sitting quite still, her head sunk upon her 
breast; on a little table in front of her was an open 
book; but her eyes, fixed and full of inexpressible 
grief, seemed for the hundredth time to be skim¬ 
ming the same page whilst her thoughts were far 
away. 


PRINCESS MARY 225 

At that moment somebody stirred behind a shrub. 
I leaped from the balcony on to the sward. An 
invisible hand seized me by the shoulder. 

“Aha!” said a rough voice: “caught! . . . I’ll 
teach you to be entering princesses’ rooms at 
night!” 

“Hold him fast!” exclaimed another, springing 
out from a corner. 

It was Grushnitski and the captain of dragoons. 

I struck the latter on the head with . my fist, 
knocked him off his feet, and darted into the 
bushes. All the paths of the garden which covered 
the slope opposite our houses were known to me. 

“Thieves, guard!” . . . they cried. 

A gunshot rang out; a smoking wad fell almost 
at my feet. 

Within a minute I was in my own room, un¬ 
dressed and in bed. My manservant had only just 
locked the door when Grushnitski and the captain 
began knocking for admission. 

“Pechorin! Are you asleep? Are you there?” 

. . . cried the captain. 

“I am in bed,” I answered angrily. 

“Get up! Thieves! . . . Circassians!” . . . 

“I have a cold,” I answered. “I am afraid of 
catching a chill.” 

They went away. I had gained no useful pur¬ 
pose by answering them: they would have been 
looking for me in the garden for another hour 
or so. 

Meanwhile the alarm became terrific. A Cos¬ 
sack galloped up from the fortress. The commo¬ 
tion was general; Circassians were looked for in 
every shrub—and of course none were found. 


226 A HERO OF OUR TIME 

Probably, however, a good many people were left 
with the firm conviction that, if only more courage 
and despatch had been shown by the garrison, at 
least a score of brigands would have failed to get 
away with their lives. 


Chapter XVIII 


27 th June. 

This morning, at the well, the sole topic of con¬ 
versation was the nocturnal attack by the Circas¬ 
sians. I drank the appointed number of glasses of 
Narzan water, and, after sauntering a few times 
about the long linden avenue, I met Vera’s hus¬ 
band, who had just arrived from Pyatigorsk. He 
took my arm and we went to. the restaurant for 
breakfast. He was dreadfully uneasy about his 
wife. 

“What a terrible fright she had last night,” he 
said. “Of course, it was bound to happen just at 
the very time when I was absent.” 

We sat down to breakfast near the door leading 
into a corner-room in which about a dozen young 
men were sitting. Grushnitski was amongst them. 
For the second time destiny provided me with the 
opportunity of overhearing a conversation which 
was to decide his fate. He did not see me, and, 
consequently, it was impossible for me to suspect 
him of design; but that only magnified his fault in 
my eyes. 

“Is it possible, though, that they were really 
Circassians?” somebody said. “Did any one see 
them ?” 

“I will tell you the whole truth,” answered Grush- 
227 


228 A HERO OF OUR TIME 

nitski: “only please do not betray me. This is 
how it was: yesterday, a certain man, whose name 
I will not tell you, came up to me and told me that, 
at ten o’clock in the evening, he had seen somebody 
creeping into the Ligovski’s house. I must observe 
that Princess Ligovski was here, and Princess Mary 
at home. So he and I set off to wait beneath the 
windows and waylay the lucky man.” 

I confess I was frightened, although my compan¬ 
ion was very busily engaged with his breakfast: 
he might have heard things which he would have 
found rather displeasing, if Grushnitski had hap¬ 
pened to guess the truth; but, blinded by jealousy, 
the latter did not even suspect it. 

“So, do you see?” Grushnitski continued. “We 
set off, taking with us a gun, loaded with blank 
cartridge, so as just to give him a fright. We 
waited in the garden till two o’clock. At length— 
goodness knows, indeed, where he appeared from, 
but he must have come out by the glass door which 
is behind the pillar; it was not out of the window 
that he came, because the window had remained un¬ 
opened—at length, I say, we saw some one get¬ 
ting down from the balcony. . . . What do you 
think of Princess Mary—eh? Well, I admit, it 
is hardly what you might expect from Moscow 
ladies! After that what can you believe? We 
were going to seize him, but he broke away and 
darted like a hare into the shrubs. Thereupon I 
fired at him.” 

There was a general murmur of incredulity. 

“You do not believe it?” he continued. “I give 
you my word of honour as a gentleman that it is 
all perfectly true, and, in proof, I will tell you the 
man’s name if you like.” 


PRINCESS MARY 229 

“Tell us, tell us, who was he?” came from all 
sides. 

“Pechorin,” answered Grushnitski. 

At that moment he raised his eyes—I was stand¬ 
ing in the doorway opposite to him. He grew 
terribly red. I went up to him and said, slowly 
and distinctly: 

“I am very sorry that I did not come in before 
you had given your word of honour in confirmation 
of a most abominable calumny: my presence would 
have saved you from that further act of baseness.” 

Grushnitski jumped up from his seat and seemed 
about to fly into a passion. 

“I beg you,” I continued in the same tone: “I 
beg you at once to retract what you have said; 
you know very well that it is all an invention. I 
do not think that a woman’s indifference to your 
brilliant merits should deserve so terrible a revenge. 
Bethink you well: if you maintain your present atti¬ 
tude, you will lose the right to the name of gentle¬ 
man and will risk your life.” 

Grushnitski stood before me in violent agitation, 
his eyes cast down. But the struggle between his 
conscience and his vanity was of short, duration. 
The captain of dragoons, who was sitting beside 
him, nudged him with his elbow. Grushnitski 
started, and answered rapidly, without raising his 
eyes: 

“My dear sir, what I say, I mean, and I am 
prepared to repeat. ... I am not afraid of your 
menaces and am ready for anything.” 

“The latter you have already proved,” I an¬ 
swered coldly; and, taking the captain of dragoons 
by the arm, I left the room. 

“What do you want?” asked the captain. 


2 3 o A HERO OF OUR TIME 

“You are Grushnitski’s friend and will no doubt 
be his second?” 

The captain bowed very gravely. 

“You have guessed rightly,” he answered. 
“Moreover, I am bound to be his second, because 
the insult offered to him touches myself also.. I 
was with him last night,” he added, straightening 
up his stooping figure. 

“Ah! So it was you whose head I struck so 
clumsily?” . . . 

He turned yellow in the face, then blue; sup¬ 
pressed rage was portrayed upon his countenance. 

“I shall have the honour to send my second to 
you today,” I added, bowing adieu to him very po¬ 
litely, without appearing to have noticed his fury. 

On the restaurant steps I met Vera’s husband. 
Apparently he had been waiting for me. 

He seized my hand with a feeling akin to rap¬ 
ture. 

“Noble young man!” he said, with tears in his 
eyes. “I have heard everything. What a scoun¬ 
drel ! Ingrate! . . . Just fancy such people being 
admitted into a decent household after this! 
Thank God I have no daughters! But she for 
whom you are risking your life will reward you. 
Be assured of my constant discretion,” he con¬ 
tinued. “I have been young myself and have 
served in the army: I know that these affairs must 
take their course. Good-bye.” 

Poor fellow! He is glad that he has no 
daughters! . . . 

I went straight to Werner, found him at home, 
and told him the whole story—my relations with 
Vera and Princess Mary, and the conversation 
which I had overheard and from which I had 


PRINCESS MARY 231 

learned the intention of these gentlemen to make 
a fool of me by causing me to fight a duel with 
blank cartridges. But, now, the affair had gone 
beyond the bounds of jest: they probably had not 
expected that it would turn out like this. 

The doctor consented to be my second; I gave 
him a few directions with regard to the conditions 
of the duel. He was to insist upon the affair be¬ 
ing managed with all possible secrecy, because, al¬ 
though I am prepared, at any moment, to. face 
death, I am not in the least disposed to spoil for 
all time my future in this world. 

After that I went home. In.an hour’s time the 
doctor returned from his expedition. . 

“There is indeed a conspiracy against you,” he 
said. “I found the captain of dragoons at Grush- 
nitski’s, together with another gentleman whose 
surname I do not remember. I stopped a moment 
in the ante-room, in order to take off my goloshes. 
They were squabbling and making a terrible, up¬ 
roar. ‘On no account will I agree,’ Grushnitski 
was saying: ‘he has insulted me publicly; it was 
quite a different thing before.’ ... 

“‘What does it matter to you?’ answered the 
captain. ‘I will take it all upon myself. I have 
been second in five duels, and I should think I know 
how to arrange the affair. I have thought it all 
out. Just let me alone,, please. It is not a bad 
thing to give people a bit of a. fright. And why 
expose yourself to danger if it is possible to avoid 

“At that moment I entered the room. They 
suddenly fell silent. Our negotiations were some¬ 
what protracted. At length we decided the mat¬ 
ter as follows; about five versts from here there is 


212 A HERO OF OUR TIME 

women to the enchanted forest of which Tasso tells 
in his “Jerusalem Delivered.” 1 

“So soon as you approach,” he said, “from all 
directions terrors, such as I pray Heaven may pre¬ 
serve us from will take wing at you: duty, pride, 
decorum, public opinion, ridicule, contempt. . . . 
You must simply go straight on without looking at 
them; gradually the monsters disappear, and, be¬ 
fore you, opens a bright and quiet glade, in the 
midst of which blooms the green myrtle. On the 
other hand, woe to you if, at the first steps, your 
heart trembles and you turn back!” 

1 Canto xviii, io: 

“Quinci al bosco f invia, dove cotanti 
Son fantasmi ingannevoli e bugiardi” . • . 


Chapter XV 


i\th June . 

This evening has been fertile in events. About 
three versts from Kislovodsk, in the gorge through 
which the Podkumok flows, there is a cliff called 
the Ring . It is a naturally formed gate, rising up¬ 
on a lofty hill and through it the setting sun throws 
its last flaming glance upon the world. A numer¬ 
ous cavalcade set off thither to gaze at the sunset 
through the rock-window. To tell the truth, not 
one of them was thinking about the sun. I rode 
beside Princess Mary. On the way home, we had 
to ford the Podkumok. Mountain streams, even 
the smallest, are dangerous; especially so, because 
the bottom is a perfect kaleidoscope: it changes 
every day owing to the pressure of the current; 
where yesterday there was a rock, today there is a 
cavity. I took Princess Mary’s horse by the bridle 
and led it into the water, which came no higher than 
its knees. We began to move slowly in a slanting 
direction against the current. It is a well-known 
fact that, in crossing rapid streamlets, you should 
never look at the water, because, if you do, your 
head begins to whirl directly. I forgot to warn 
Princess Mary of that. 

We had reached the middle and were right in 
the vortex, when suddenly she reeled in her saddle. 

“I feel ill!” she said in a faint voice. 

213 


214 A HERO OF OUR TIME 

I bent over to her rapidly and threw my arm 
around her supple waist. 

“Look up!” I whispered. “It is nothing; just 
be brave! I am with you.” 

She grew better; she was about to disengage her¬ 
self from my arm, but I clasped her tender, soft 
figure in a still closer embrace; my cheek almost 
touched hers, from which was wafted flame. 

“What are you doing to me? . . . Oh, 
Heaven!” ... 

I paid no attention to her alarm and confusion, 
and my lips touched her tender cheek. She shud¬ 
dered, but said nothing. We were riding behind 
the others: nobody saw us. 

When we made our way out on the bank, the 
horses were all put to the trot. Princess Mary 
kept hers back; I remained beside her. It was 
evident that my silence was making her uneasy, but 
I swore to myself that I would not speak a single 
word—out of curiosity. I wanted to see how she 
would extricate herself from that embarrassing 
position. 

“Either you despise me, or you love me very 
much!” she said at length, and there were tears 
in her voice. “Perhaps you want to laugh at me, 
to excite my soul and then to abandon me. . . . 
That would be so base, so vile, that the mere sup¬ 
position . . . Oh, no!” she added, in a voice of 
tender trustfulness; “there is nothing in me which 
would preclude respect; is it not so? Your pre¬ 
sumptuous action ... I must, I must forgive you 
for it, because I permitted it. . . . Answer, speak, 
I want to hear your voice!” . . . 

There was such womanly impatience in her last 
words that, involuntarily, I smiled; happily it was 


PRINCESS MARY 215 

beginning to grow dusk. ... I made no answer. 

“You are silent!” she continued; “you wish, per¬ 
haps, that I should be the first to tell you that 
I love you.” . . . 

I remained silent. 

“Is that what you wish?” she continued, turn¬ 
ing rapidly towards me. . . . There was some¬ 
thing terrible in the determination of her glance and 
voice. 

“Why?” I answered, shrugging my shoulders. 

She struck her horse with her riding-whip and 
set off at full gallop along the narrow, dangerous 
road. It all happened so quickly that I was 
scarcely able to overtake her, and then only by the 
time she had joined the rest of the company. 

All the way home she was continually talking 
and laughing. There was something. feverish in 
her movements; not once did she look in my direc¬ 
tion. Everybody observed her unusual gaiety. 
Princess Ligovski rejoiced inwardly as she looked at 
her daughter. However, the latter simply has a 
fit of nerves: she will spend a sleepless night, and 

will weep. , .. , 

This thought affords me measureless delight: 
there are moments when I understand the Vam¬ 
pire. . . . And yet I am reputed, to be a good fel¬ 
low, and I strive to earn that designation! 

On dismounting, the ladies went into Princess 
Ligovski’s house. I was excited, and I galloped 
to the mountains in order to dispel the thoughts 
which had thronged into my head. The dewy eve¬ 
ning breathed an intoxicating coolness. The moon 
was rising from behind the dark summits. Each 
step of my unshod horse resounded hollowly in the 
silence of the gorges. I watered the horse at the 


216 A HERO OF OUR TIME 

waterfall, and then, after greedily inhaling once or 
twice the fresh air of the southern night, I set off 
on my way back. I rode through the village. 
The lights in the windows were beginning to go out; 
the sentries on the fortress-rampart and the Cos¬ 
sacks in the surrounding pickets were calling out in 
drawling tones to one another. 

In one of the village houses, built at the edge of 
a ravine, I noticed an extraordinary illumination. 
At times, discordant murmurs and shouting could 
be heard, proving that a military carouse was in full 
swing. I dismounted ‘and crept up to the window. 
The shutter had not been made fast and I could 
see the banqueters and catch what they were saying. 
They were talking about me. 

The captain of dragoons, flushed with wine, 
struck the table with his fist, demanding attention. 

“Gentlemen!” he said, “this won’t do ! Pechorin 
must be taught a lesson! These Petersburg fledg¬ 
lings always carry their heads high until they get a 
slap in the face! He thinks that because he always 
wears clean gloves and polished boots he is the only 
one who has ever lived in society. And what a 
haughty smile! All the same, I am convinced that 
he is a coward—yes, a coward!” 

“I think so too,” said Grushnitski. “He is fond 
of getting himself out of trouble by pretending to 
be only having a joke. I once gave him such a talk¬ 
ing to that any one else in his place would have cut 
me to pieces on the spot. But Pechorin turned it 
all to the ridiculous side. I, of course, did not call 
him out because that was his business, but he did not 
care to have anything more to do with it.” 

“Grushnitski is angry with him for having cap¬ 
tured Princess Mary from him,” somebody said. 


PRINCESS MARY 217 

“That’s a new idea! It is true I did run after 
Princess Mary a little, but I left off at once because 
I do not want to get married; and it is against my 
rules to compromise a girl.” 

“Yes, I assure you that he is a coward of the first 
water, I mean Pechorin, not Grushnitski—but 
Grushnitski is a fine fellow, and, besides, he is my 
true friend!” the captain of dragoons went on. 

“Gentlemen! Nobody here stands up for him? 
Nobody? So much the better! Would you like 
to put his courage to the test? It would be amus¬ 
ing.” . . . 

“We would; but how?” 

“Listen here, then: Grushnitski in particular is 
angry with him—therefore to Grushnitski falls the 
chief part. He will pick a quarrel over some silly 
trifle or other, and will challenge Pechorin to a 
duel. . . . Wait a bit; here is where the joke 
comes in. . . . He will challenge him to a duel; 
very well! The whole proceeding—challenge, 
preparations, conditions—will be as solemn and 
awe-inspiring as possible—I will see to that. I will 
be your second, my poor friend! Very well! . Only 
here is the rub; we will put no bullets in the pistols. 
I can answer for it that Pechorin will turn coward 
—I will place them six paces apart, devil take it! 
Are you agreed, gentlemen?” 

“Splendid idea! . . . Agreed! . . . And why 
not?” . . . came from all sides. 

“And you, Grushnitski?” 

Tremblingly I awaited Grushnitski’s answer. I 
was filled with cold rage at the thought that, but 
for an accident, I might have made myself the 
laughing-stock of those fools. If Grushnitski had 
not agreed, I should have thrown myself upon his 


218 a HERO OF OUR TIME 

neck; but, after an interval of silence, he rose from 
his place, extended his hand to the captain, and said 
very gravely: 

“Very well, I agree!” 

It would be difficult to describe the enthusiasm of 
that honourable company. 

I returned home, agitated by two different feel¬ 
ings. The first was sorrow. 

“Why do they all hate me?” I thought—“why? 
Have I affronted any one? No. Can it be that I 
am one of those men the mere sight of whom is 
enough to create animosity?” 

And I felt a venomous rage gradually filling my 
soul. 

“Have a care, Mr. Grushnitski!” I said, walk¬ 
ing up and down the room: “I am not to be jested 
with like this! You may pay dearly for the ap¬ 
probation of your foolish comrades. I am not 
your toy!” . . . 

I got no sleep that night. By daybreak I was 
as yellow as an orange. 

In the morning I met Princess Mary at the well. 

“You are ill?” she said, looking intently at me. 

“I did not sleep last night.” 

“Nor I either. ... I was accusing you . . . 
perhaps groundlessly. But explain yourself, I can 
forgive you everything.” . . . 

“Everything?”. . . 

“Everything . . . only speak the truth . . . 
and be quick. ... You see, I have been thinking 
a good deal, trying to explain, to justify, your be¬ 
haviour. Perhaps you are afraid of opposition on 
the part of my relations . . . that will not mat¬ 
ter. When they learn”. . . 

Her voice shook. 


PRINCESS MARY 219 

“I will win them over by entreaties. Or, is it 
your own position? . . . But you know that I can 
sacrifice everything for the sake of the man I love. 
. . . Oh, answer quickly—have pity. ... You 
do not despise me—do you?” 

She seized my hand. 

Princess Ligovski was walking in front of us 
with Vera’s husband, and had not seen anything; 
but we might have been observed by some of the 
invalids who were strolling about—the most in¬ 
quisitive gossips of all inquisitive folk—and I 
rapidly disengaged my hand from her passionate 
pressure. 

“I will tell you the whole truth,’’ I answered. 

“I will not justify myself, nor explain my actions: 
I do not love you.” 

Her lips grew slightly pale. 

“Leave me,” she said, in a scarcely audible 
voice. 

I shrugged my shoulders, turned round, and 
walked away. 


Chapter XVI 


2 $th June, 

I sometimes despise myself. ... Is not that 
the reason why I despise others also? ... I have 
grown incapable of noble impulses; I am afraid 
of appearing ridiculous to myself. In my place, 
another would have offered Princess Mary son 
cceur et sa fortune; but over me the word “marry” 
has a kind of magical power. However passion¬ 
ately I love a woman, if she only gives me to feel 
that I have to marry her—then farewell, love! 
My heart is turned to stone, and nothing will 
warm it anew. I am prepared for any other sac¬ 
rifice but that; my life twenty times over, nay, 
my honour I would stake on the fortune of a card 
. . . but my freedom I will never sell. Why do 
I prize it so highly? What is there in it for me? 
For what am I preparing myself? What do I 
hope for from the future? ... In truth, ab¬ 
solutely nothing. It is a kind of innate dread, an 
inexplicable prejudice. . . . There are people, you 
know, who have an unaccountable dread of 
spiders, beetles, mice. . . . Shall I confess it? 
When I was but a child, a certain old woman told 
my fortune to my mother. She predicted for me 
death from a wicked wife. I was profoundly 
struck by her words at the time: an irresistible 
repugnance to marriage was born within my soul. 

220 


221 


PRINCESS MARY 

. . . Meanwhile, something tells me that her pre¬ 
diction will be realized; I will try, at all events, to 
arrange that it shall be realized as late in life as 
possible. 


Chapter XVII 


26th June. 


Yesterday, the conjurer Apfelbaum arrived 
here. A long placard made its appearance on the 
door of the restaurant, informing the most re¬ 
spected public that the above-mentioned marvel¬ 
lous conjurer, acrobat, chemist, and optician would 
have the honour to give a magnificent performance 
on the present day at eight o’clock in the evening, 
in the saloon of the Nobles’ Club (in other words, 
the restaurant) ; tickets—two rubles and a half 
each. 

Every one intends to go and see the marvellous 
conjurer; even Princess Ligovski has taken a ticket 
for herself, in spite of her daughter being ill. 

After dinner today, I walked past Vera’s win¬ 
dows; she was sitting by herself on the balcony. 
A note fell at my feet: 

“Come to me at ten o’clock this evening by the 
large staircase. My husband has gone to Pyati¬ 
gorsk and will not return before tomorrow morn¬ 
ing. My servants and maids will not be at home; 
I have distributed tickets to all of them, and to 
the princess’s servants as well. I await you; come 
without fail.” 

“Aha!” I said to myself, “so then it has turned 
out at last as I thought it would.” 

At eight o’clock I went to see the conjurer. 

222 


PRINCESS MARY 223 

The public assembled before the stroke of nine. 
The performance began. On the back rows of 
chairs I recognized Vera’s and Princess Ligovski’s 
menservants and maids. They were all there, 
every single one. Grushnitski, with his lorgnette, 
was sitting in the front row, and the conjurer had 
recourse to him every time he needed a handker¬ 
chief, a watch, a ring and so forth. 

For some time past, Grushnitski has ceased to 
bow to me, and today he has looked at me rather 
insolently once or twice. It will all be remem¬ 
bered to him when we come to settle our scores. 

Before ten o’clock had struck, I stood up and 
went out. 

It was dark outside, pitch dark. Cold, heavy 
clouds were lying on the summit of the surround¬ 
ing mountains, and only at rare intervals did the 
dying breeze rustle the tops of the poplars which 
surrounded the restaurant. People were crowd¬ 
ing at the windows. I went down the mountain 
and, turning in under the gate, I hastened my pace. 
Suddenly it seemed to me that somebody was fol¬ 
lowing my steps. I stopped and looked round. 
It was impossible to make out anything in the dark¬ 
ness. However, out of caution, I walked round 
the house, as if taking a stroll. Passing Princess 
Mary’s windows, I again heard steps behind me; 
a man wrapped in a cloak ran by me. That ren¬ 
dered me uneasy, but I crept up to the flight of 
steps, and hastily mounted the dark staircase. A 
door opened, and a little hand seized mine. . . . 

“Nobody has seen you?” said Vera in a whisper, 
clinging to me. 

“Nobody.” _ , 

“Now do you believe that I love you? Oh! 


224 A HERO OF OUR TIME 

I have long hesitated, long tortured myself. . . . 
But you can do anything you like with me.” 

Her heart was beating violently, her hands were 
cold as ice. She broke out into complaints and 
jealous reproaches. She demanded that I should 
confess everything to her, saying that she would 
bear my faithlessness with submission, because her 
sole desire was that I should be happy. I did not 
quite believe that, but I calmed her with oaths, 
promises and so on. 

“So you will not marry Mary? You do not love 
her? . . . But she thinks . . . Do you know, 
she is madly in love with you, poor girl!”. . . 


About two o’clock in the morning I opened the 
window and, tying two shawls together, I let my¬ 
self down from the upper balcony to the lower, 
holding on by the pillar. A light was still burn¬ 
ing in Princess Mary’s room. Something drew me 
towards that window. The curtain was not quite 
drawn, and I was able to cast a curious glance into 
the interior of the room. Mary was sitting on 
her bed, her hands crossed upon her knees; her 
thick hair was gathered up under a lace-frilled 
nightcap; her white shoulders were covered by a 
large crimson kerchief, and her little feet were 
hidden in a pair of many-coloured Persian slippers. 
She was sitting quite still, her head sunk upon her 
breast; on a little table in front of her was an open 
book; but her eyes, fixed and full of inexpressible 
grief, seemed for the hundredth time to be skim¬ 
ming the same page whilst her thoughts were far 
away. 


PRINCESS MARY 225 

At that moment somebody stirred behind a shrub. 
I leaped from the balcony on to the sward. An 
invisible hand seized me by the shoulder. 

“Aha!” said a rough voice: “caught! . . . I’ll 
teach you to be entering princesses’ rooms at 
night!” 

“Hold him fast!” exclaimed another, springing 
out from a corner. 

It was Grushnitski and the captain of dragoons. 

I struck the latter on the head with my fist, 
knocked him off his feet, and darted into the 
bushes. All the paths of the garden which covered 
the slope opposite our houses were known to me. 

“Thieves, guard!” . . . they cried. 

A gunshot rang out; a smoking wad fell almost 
at my feet. 

Within a minute I was in my own room, un¬ 
dressed and in bed. My manservant had only just 
locked the door when Grushnitski and the captain 
began knocking for admission. 

“Pechorin! Are you asleep? Are you there?” 
. . . cried the captain. 

“I am in bed,” I answered angrily. 

“Get up! Thieves! . . . Circassians!” . . . 

“I have a cold,” I answered. “I am afraid of 
catching a chill.” 

They went away. I had gained no useful pur¬ 
pose by answering them: they would have been 
looking for me in the garden for another hour 
°r so. 

Meanwhile the alarm became terrific. A Cos¬ 
sack galloped up from the fortress. The commo¬ 
tion was general; Circassians were looked for in 
every shrub—and of course none were found. 


226 A HERO OF OUR TIME 

Probably, however, a good many people were left 
with the firm conviction that, if only more courage 
and despatch had been shown by the garrison, at 
least a score of brigands would have failed to get 
away with their lives. 


Chapter XVIII 


27th June . 

This morning, at the well, the sole topic of con¬ 
versation was the nocturnal attack by the Circas¬ 
sians. I drank the appointed number of glasses of 
Narzan water, and, after sauntering a few times 
about the long linden avenue, I met Vera’s hus¬ 
band, who had just arrived from Pyatigorsk. He 
took my arm and we went to the restaurant for 
breakfast. He was dreadfully uneasy about his 
wife. 

“What a terrible fright she had last night,” he 
said. “Of course, it was bound to happen just at 
the very time when I was absent.” 

We sat down to breakfast near the door leading 
into a corner-room in which about a dozen young 
men were sitting. Grushnitski was amongst them. 
For the second time destiny provided me with the 
opportunity of overhearing a conversation which 
was to decide his fate. He did not see me, and, 
consequently, it was impossible for me to suspect 
him of design; but that only magnified his fault in 
my eyes. 

“Is it possible, though, that they were really 
Circassians?” somebody said. “Did any one see 
them?” 

“I will tell you the whole truth,” answered Grush- 
227 


228 A HERO OF OUR TIME 

nitski: “only please do not betray me. This is 
how it was: yesterday, a certain man, whose name 
I will not tell you, came up to me and told me that, 
at ten o’clock in the evening, he had seen somebody 
creeping into the Ligovski’s house. I must observe 
that Princess Ligovski was here, and Princess Mary 
at home. So he and I set off to wait beneath the 
windows and waylay the lucky man.” 

I confess I was frightened, although my compan¬ 
ion was very busily engaged with his breakfast: 
he might have heard things which he would have 
found rather displeasing, if Grushnitski had hap¬ 
pened to guess the truth; but, blinded by jealousy, 
the latter did not even suspect it. 

“So, do you see?” Grushnitski continued. “We 
set off, taking with us a gun, loaded with blank 
cartridge, so as just to give him a fright. We 
waited in the garden till two o’clock. At length— 
goodness knows, indeed, where he appeared from, 
but he must have come out by the glass door which 
is behind the pillar; it was not out of the window 
that he came, because the window had remained un¬ 
opened—at length, I say, we saw some one get¬ 
ting down from the balcony. . . . What do you 
think of Princess Mary—eh? Well, I admit, it 
is hardly what you might expect from Moscow 
ladies! After that what can you believe? We 
were going to seize him, but he broke away and 
darted like a hare into the shrubs. Thereupon I 
fired at him.” 

There was a general murmur of incredulity. 

“You do not believe it?” he continued. “I give 
you my word of honour as a gentleman that it is 
all perfectly true, and, in proof, I will tell you the 
man’s name if you like.” 


PRINCESS MARY 229 

“Tell us, tell us, who was he?” came from all 
sides. 

“Pechorin,” answered Grushnitski. 

At that moment he raised his eyes—I was stand¬ 
ing in the doorway opposite to him. He grew 
terribly red. I went up to him and said, slowly 
and distinctly: 

“I am very sorry that I did not come in before 
you had given your word of honour in confirmation 
of a most abominable calumny: my presence would 
have saved you from that further act of baseness.” 

Grushnitski jumped up from his seat and seemed 
about to fly into a passion. 

“I beg you,” I continued in the same tone: “I 
beg you at once to retract what you have said; 
you know very well that it is all an invention. I 
do not think that a woman’s indifference to your 
brilliant merits should deserve so terrible a revenge. 
Bethink you well: if you maintain your present atti¬ 
tude, you will lose the right to the name of gentle¬ 
man and will risk your life.” . . 

Grushnitski stood before me in violent agitation, 
his eyes cast down. But the struggle between his 
conscience and his vanity was of short, duration. 
The captain of dragoons, who was sitting beside 
him, nudged him with his elbow. Grushnitski 
started, and answered rapidly, without raising his 
eyes: 

“My dear sir, what I say, I mean, and I am 
prepared to repeat. ... I am not afraid of your 
menaces and am ready for anything.” 

“The latter you have already proved, I an¬ 
swered coldly; and, taking the captain of dragoons 
by the arm, I left the room. 

“What do you want?” asked the captain. 


2 3 o A HERO OF OUR TIME 

“You are Grushnitski’s friend and will no doubt 
be his second?” 

The captain bowed very gravely. 

“You have guessed rightly,” he answered. 
“Moreover, I am bound to be his second, because 
the insult offered to him touches myself also.. I 
was with him last night,” he added, straightening 
up his stooping figure. 

“Ah! So it was you whose head I struck so 
clumsily?” . . . 

He turned yellow in the face, then blue; sup¬ 
pressed rage was portrayed upon his countenance. 

“I shall have the honour to send my second to 
you today,” I added, bowing adieu to him very po¬ 
litely, without appearing to have noticed his fury. 

On the restaurant steps I met Vera’s husband. 
Apparently he had been waiting for me. 

He seized my hand with a feeling akin to rap¬ 
ture. 

“Noble young man!” he said, with tears in his 
eyes. “I have heard everything. What a scoun¬ 
drel! Ingrate! . . . Just fancy such people being 
admitted into a decent household after this! 
Thank God I have no daughters! But she for 
whom you are risking your life will reward you. 
Be assured of my constant discretion,” he con¬ 
tinued. “I have been young myself and have 
served in the army: I know that these affairs must 
take their course. Good-bye.” 

Poor fellow! He is glad that he has no 
daughters! . . . 

I went straight to Werner, found him at home, 
and told him the whole story—my relations with 
Vera and Princess Mary, and the conversation 
which I had overheard and from which I had 


PRINCESS MARY 231 

learned the intention of these gentlemen to make 
a fool of me by causing me to fight a duel with 
blank cartridges. But, now, the affair had gone 
beyond the bounds of jest: they probably had not 
expected that it would turn out like this. 

The doctor consented to be my second; I gave 
him a few directions with regard to the conditions 
of the duel. He was to insist upon the affair be¬ 
ing managed with all possible secrecy, because, al¬ 
though I am prepared, at any moment, to face 
death, I am not in the least disposed to spoil for 
all time my future in this world. 

After that I went home. In an hour’s time the 
doctor returned from his expedition. . 

“There is indeed a conspiracy against you,” he 
said. “I found the captain of dragoons at Grush- 
nitski’s, together with another gentleman whose 
surname I do not remember. I stopped a moment 
in the ante-room, in order to take off my goloshes. 
They were squabbling and making a terrible, up¬ 
roar. ‘On no account will I agree,’ Grushnitski 
was saying: ‘he has insulted me publicly; it was 
quite a different thing before.’ ... 

“‘What does it matter to you?’ answered the 
captain. ‘I will take it all upon myself. I have 
been second in five duels, and I should think I know 
how to arrange the affair. I have thought it all 
out. Just let me alone,, please. It is not a bad 
thing to give people a bit of a. fright. And why 
expose yourself to danger if it is possible to avoid 
it?’ . . . 

“At that moment I entered the room. They 
suddenly fell silent. Our negotiations were some¬ 
what protracted. At length we decided the mat¬ 
ter as follows: about five versts from here there is 


232 A HERO OF OUR TIME 

a hollow gorge; they will ride thither tomorrow at 
four o’clock in the morning, and we shall leave half 
an hour later. You will fire at six paces—Grush- 
nitski himself demanded that condition. Which¬ 
ever of you is killed—his death will be put down 
to the account of the Circassians. And now I must 
tell you what I suspect: they, that is to say the sec¬ 
onds, may have made some change in their former 
plan and may want to load only Grushnitski’s pis¬ 
tol. That is something like murder, but in time of 
war, and especially in Asiatic warfare, such tricks 
are allowed. Grushnitski, however, seems to be a 
little more magnanimous than his companions. 
What do you think? Ought we not to let them 
see that we have guessed their plan?” 

“Not on any account, doctor! Make your mind 
easy; I will not give in to them.” 

“But what are you going to do, then?” 

“That is my secret.” 

“Mind you are not caught ... six paces, you 
know!” 

“Doctor, I shall expect you tomorrow at four 
o’clock. The horses will be ready. . . . Good¬ 
bye.” 

I remained in the house until the evening, with 
my door locked. A manservant came to invite me 
to Princess Ligovski’s—I bade him say that I was 
ill. 


Two o’clock in the morning. ... I cannot sleep. 
. . . Yet sleep is what I need, if I am to have a 
steady hand tomorrow. However, at six paces it is 
difficult to miss. Aha! Mr. Grushnitski, your wiles 
will not succeed! . . . We shall exchange roles: 


PRINCESS MARY 233 

now it is I who shall have to seek the signs of latent 
terror upon your pallid countenance. Why have 
you yourself appointed these fatal six paces? 
Think you that I will tamely expose my forehead 
to your aim? . . . No, we shall cast lots. . . . 
And then—then—what if his luck should prevail? 
If my star at length should betray me? . . . And 
little wonder if it did: it has so long and faithfully 
served my caprices. 

Well? If I must die, I must! The loss to the 
world will not be great; and I myself am already 
downright weary of everything. I am like a guest 
at a ball, who yawns but does not go home to bed, 
simply because his carriage has not come for him. 
But now the carriage is here. . . . Good-bye! . . . 

My whole past life I live again in memory, and 
involuntarily, I ask myself: ‘why have I lived—for 
what purpose was I born?’ ... A purpose there 
must have been, and, surely, mine was an exalted 
destiny, because I feel that within my soul are pow¬ 
ers immeasurable. . . . But I was not able to dis¬ 
cover that destiny, I allowed myself to be carried 
away by the allurements of passions, inane and 
ignoble. From their crucible I issued hard and 
cold as iron, but gone for ever was the glow of 
noble aspirations—the fairest flower of life. And, 
from that time forth, how often have I not played 
the part of an ax in the hands of fate! Like an 
implement of punishment, I have fallen upon the 
head of doomed victims, often without malice, al¬ 
ways without pity. . . . To none has my love 
brought happiness, because I have never sacrificed 
anything for the sake of those I have loved: for,/ 
myself alone I have loved—for my own pleasure. 

I have only satisfied the strange craving of my 


234 A HERO OF OUR TIME 

heart, greedily draining their feelings, their tender¬ 
ness, their joys, their sufferings—and I have never 
been able to sate myself. I am like one who, spent 
with hunger, falls asleep in exhaustion and sees be¬ 
fore him sumptuous viands and sparkling wines; he 
devours with rapture the aerial gifts of the imagi¬ 
nation, and his pains seem somewhat assuaged. 
Let him but awake: the vision vanishes—twofold 
hunger and despair remain! 

And tomorrow, it may be, I shall die! . . . And 
there will not be left on earth one being who has 
understood me completely. Some will consider me 
worse, others, better, than I have been in reality. 

. . . Some will say: ‘he was a good fellow’; others: 
‘a villain.’ And both epithets will be false. After 
all this, is life worth the trouble? And yet we live 
—out of curiosity! We expect something new. 
How absurd, and yet how vexatious! 



Chapter XIX 

It is now a month and a half since I have been 
in the N- Fortress. 

Maksim Maksimych is out hunting. ... I am 
alone. I am sitting by the window. Grey clouds 
have covered the mountains to the foot; the sun 
appears through the mist as a yellow spot. It is 
cold; the wind is whistling and rocking the shutters. 
... I am bored! . . . I will continue my diary 
which has been interrupted by so many strange 
events. 

I read the last page over: how ridiculous it 
seems! ... I thought to die; it was not to be. 
I have not yet drained the cup of suffering, and 
now I feel that I still have long to live. 

How clearly and how sharply have all these 
bygone events been stamped upon my memory! 
Time has not effaced a single line, a single, shade. 

I remember that during the night preceding the 
duel I did not sleep a single moment. I was not 
able to write for long: a secret uneasiness took pos¬ 
session of me. For about an hour I paced the 
room, then I sat down and opened a novel by 
Walter Scott which was lying on my table. It was 
“The Scottish Puritans.” 1 At first I read with an 

1 None of the Waverley novels, of course, bears this title. The 
novel referred to is doubtless “Old Mortality,” on which Bellini’s 
opera, “I Puritani di Scozia,” is founded. 

235 





236 A HERO OF OUR TIME 

effort, then, carried away by the magical fiction, I 
became oblivious of everything else. 

At last day broke. My nerves became com¬ 
posed. I looked in the glass: a dull pallor covered 
my face, which preserved the traces of harassing 
sleeplessness; but my eyes, although encircled by a 
brownish shadow, glittered proudly and inexorably. 
I was satisfied with myself. 

I ordered the horses to be saddled, dressed my¬ 
self, and ran down to the baths. Plunging into 
the cold, sparkling water of the Narzan Spring, I 
felt my bodily and mental powers returning. I left 
the baths as fresh and hearty as if I was off to a 
ball. After that, who shall say that the soul is not 
dependent upon the body! . . . 

On my return, I found the doctor at my rooms. 
He was wearing grey riding-breeches, a jacket and 
a Circassian cap. I burst out laughing when I saw 
that little figure under the enormous shaggy cap. 
Werner has a by no means warlike countenance, 
and on that occasion it was even longer than usual. 

“Why so sad, doctor?” I said to him. “Have 
you not a hundred times, with the greatest indiffer¬ 
ence, escorted people to the other world? Imagine 
that I have a bilious fever: I may get well; also, I 
may die; both are in the usual course of things. 
Try to look on me as a patient, afflicted with an 
illness with which you are still unfamiliar—and 
then your curiosity will be aroused in the highest 
degree. You can now make a few important 
physiological observations upon me. ... Is not 
the expectation of a violent death itself a real ill¬ 
ness?” 

The doctor was struck by that idea, and he 
brightened up. 


PRINCESS MARY 237 

We mounted our horses. Werner clung on to 
his bridle with both hands, and we set off. In a 
trice we had galloped past the fortress, through the 
village, and had ridden into the gorge. Our wind¬ 
ing road was half-overgrown with tall grass and 
was intersected every moment by a noisy brook, 
which we had to ford, to the great despair of the 
doctor, because each time his horse would stop in 
the water. 

A morning more fresh and blue I cannot remem¬ 
ber ! The sun had scarce shown his face from be¬ 
hind the green summits, and the blending of the 
first warmth of his rays with the dying coolness of 
the night produced on all my feelings a sort of 
sweet languor. The joyous beam of the young day 
had not yet penetrated the gorge; it gilded only the 
tops of the cliffs which overhung us on both sides. 
The tufted shrubs, growing in the deep crevices of 
the cliffs, besprinkled us with a silver shower at 
the least breath of wind. I remember that on that 
occasion I loved Nature more than ever before. 
With what curiosity did I examine every dewdrop 
trembling upon the broad vine leaf and reflecting 
millions of rainbow-hued rays! How eagerly did 
my glance endeavour to penetrate the smoky 
distance! There the road grew narrower and 
narrower, the cliffs bluer and more dreadful, 
and at last they met, it seemed, in an impenetrable 
wall. 

We rode in silence. 

“Have you made your will?” Werner suddenly 
inquired. 

“No.” 

“And if you are killed?” 

“My heirs will be found of themselves.” 


238 A HERO OF OUR TIME 

“Is it possible that you have no friends, to whom 
you would like to send a last farewell?” . . . 

I shook my head. 

“Is there, really, not one woman in the world to 
whom you would like to leave some token in re¬ 
membrance?” . . . 

“Do you want me to reveal my soul to you, doc¬ 
tor?” I answered. . . . “You see, I have outlived 
the years when people die with the name of the 
beloved on their lips and bequeathing to a friend 
a lock of pomaded—or unpomaded—hair. When 
I think that death may be near, I think of myself 
alone; others do not even do as much. The friends 
who tomorrow will forget me or, worse, will utter 
goodness knows what falsehoods about me; the 
women who, while embracing another, will laugh at 
me in order not to arouse his jealousy of the de¬ 
ceased—let them go! Out of the storm of life I 
have borne away only a few ideas—and not one 
feeling. For a long time now I have been living, 
not with my heart, but with my head. I weigh, 
analyze my own passions and actions with severe 
curiosity, but without sympathy. There are two 
personalities within me: one lives —in the complete 
sense of the word—the other reflects and judges 
him; the first, it may be, in an hour’s time, will take 
farewell of you and the world for ever, and the 
second—the second? . . . Look, doctor, do you 
see those three black figures on the cliff, to the 
right? They are our antagonists, I suppose?” . . . 

We pushed on. 

In the bushes at the foot of the cliff three horses 
were tethered; we tethered ours there too, and 
then we clambered up the narrow path to the ledge 
on which Grushnitski was awaiting us in company 


PRINCESS MARY 239 

with the captain of dragoons and his other second, 
whom they called Ivan Ignatevich. His surname 
I never heard. 

“We have been expecting you for quite a long 
time,” said the captain of dragoons, with an ironical 
smile. 

I drew out my watch and showed him the time. 

He apologized, saying that his watch was fast. 

There was an embarrassing silence for a few 
moments. At length the doctor interrupted it. 

“It seems to me,” he said, turning to Grushnitski, 
“that as you have both shown your readiness to 
fight, and thereby paid the debt due to the condi¬ 
tions of honour, you might be able to come to an 
explanation and finish the affair amicably.” 

“I am ready,” I said. 

The captain winked to Grushnitski, and the lat¬ 
ter, thinking that I was losing courage, assumed a 
haughty air, although, until that moment, his cheeks 
had been covered with a dull pallor. For the first 
time since our arrival he lifted his eyes on me; but 
in his glance there was a certain disquietude which 
evinced an inward struggle. 

“Declare your conditions,” he said, “and any¬ 
thing I can do for you, be assured” . . . 

“These are my conditions: you will this very day 
publicly recant your slander and beg my par¬ 
don” . . . 

“My dear sir, I wonder how you dare make such 
a proposal to me?” 

^‘What else could I propose?” . . . 

“We will fight.” 

I shrugged my shoulders. 

“Be it so; only, bethink you that one of us will 
infallibly be killed.” 


2 4 0 A HERO OF OUR TIME 

“I hope it will be you.” . . . 

“And I am *o convinced of the contrary” . . . 

He became confused, turned red, and then burst 
out into a forced laugh. 

The captain took his arm and led him aside; they 
whispered together for a long time. I had arrived 
in a fairly pacific frame of mind, but all this was 
beginning to drive me furious. 

The doctor came up to me. 

“Listen,” he said, with manifest uneasiness, “you 
have surely forgotten their conspiracy! ... I do 
not know how to load a pistol, but in this case. . . . 
You are a strange man! Tell them that you know 
their intention—and they will not dare. . . . What 
sport! To shoot you like a bird.” . . . 

“Please do not be uneasy, doctor, and wait a 
while. ... I shall arrange everything in such a 
way that there will be no advantage on their side. 
Let them whisper.” . . . 

“Gentlemen, this is becoming tedious,” I said to 
them loudly: “if we are to fight, let us fight; you 
had time yesterday to talk as much as you wanted 
to.” 

“We are ready,” answered the captain. “Take 
your places, gentlemen! Doctor, be good enough 
to measure six paces.” . . . 

“Take your places!” repeated Ivan Ignatevich, 
in a squeaky voice. 

“Excuse me!” I said. “One further condition. 
As we are going to fight to the death, we are bound 
to do everything possible in order that the affair 
may remain a secret, and that our seconds may 
incur no responsibility. Do you agree?” . . . 

“Quite.” 

“Well, then, this is my idea. Do you see that 


PRINCESS MARY 241 

narrow ledge on the top of the perpendicular cliff 
on the right? It must be thirty fathoms, if not 
more, from there to the bottom; and, down below, 
there are sharp rocks. Each of us will stand right 
at the extremity of the ledge—in such manner even 
a slight wound will be mortal: that ought to be in 
accordance with your desire, as you yourselves have 
fixed upon six paces. Whichever of us is wounded 
will be certain to fall down and be dashed to pieces; 
the doctor will extract the bullet, and, then, it will 
be possible very easily to account for that sudden 
death by saying it was the result of a fall. Let us 
cast lots to decide who shall fire first. In con¬ 
clusion, I declare that I will not fight on any other 
terms.” 

“Be it so!” said the captain after an expressive 
glance at Grushnitski, who nodded his head in token 
of assent. Every moment he was changing coun¬ 
tenance. I had placed him in an embarrassing po¬ 
sition. Had the duel been fought upon the usual 
conditions, he could have aimed at my leg, wounded 
me slightly, and in such wise gratified his vengeance 
without overburdening his conscience. But now he 
was obliged to fire in the air, or to make himself an 
assassin, or, finally, to abandon his base plan and 
to expose himself to equal danger with me. I 
should not have liked to be in his place at that 
moment. He took the captain aside and said some¬ 
thing to him with great warmth. His lips were 
blue, and I saw them trembling; but the captain 
turned away from him with a contemptuous smile. 

“You are a fool,” he said to Grushnitski rather 
loudly. “You can’t understand a thing! . . . Let 
us be off, then, gentlemen!” 

The precipice was approached by a narrow path 


242 A HERO OF OUR TIME 

between bushes, and fragments of rock formed the 
precarious steps of that natural staircase. Cling¬ 
ing to the bushes we proceeded to clamber up. 
Grushnitski went in front, his seconds behind him, 
and then the doctor and I. 

“I am surprised at you,” said the doctor, press¬ 
ing my hand vigorously. “Let me feel your pulse! 
. . . Oho! Feverish! . . . But nothing noticeable 
on your countenance . . . only your eyes are gleam¬ 
ing more brightly than usual.” 

Suddenly small stones rolled noisily right under 
our feet. What was it? Grushnitski had stum¬ 
bled; the branch to which he was clinging had 
broken off, and he would have rolled down on his 
back if his seconds had not held him up. 

“Take care!” I cried. “Do not fall prema¬ 
turely: that is a bad sign. Remember Julius 
Caesar!” 


Chapter XX 

And now we had climbed to the summit of the 
projecting cliff. The ledge was covered with fine 
sand, as if on purpose for a duel. All around, like 
an innumerable herd, crowded the mountains, their 
summits lost to view in the golden mist of the 
morning; and towards the south rose the white 
mass of Elbruz, closing the chain of icy peaks, 
among which fibrous clouds, which had rushed in 
from the east, were already roaming. I walked 
to the extremity of the ledge and gazed down. My 
head nearly swam. At the foot of the precipice all 
seemed dark and cold as in a tomb; the moss-grown 
jags of the rocks, hurled down by storm and time, 
were awaiting their prey. 

The ledge on which we were to fight formed an 
almost regular triangle. Six paces were measured 
from the projecting corner, and it was decided that 
whichever had first to meet the fire of his opponent 
should stand in the very corner with his back to the 
precipice; if he was not killed the adversaries would 
change places. 

I determined to relinquish every advantage to 
Grushnitski; I wanted to test him. A spark of 
magnanimity might awake in his soul—and then all 
would have been settled for the best. But his 
vanity and weakness of character had perforce to 
triumph! ... I wished to give myself the full 
right to refrain from sparing him if destiny were 
242 


244 A HERO OF OUR TIME 

to favour me. Who would not have concluded 
such an agreement with his conscience? 

“Cast the lot, doctor!” said the captain. 

The doctor drew a silver coin from his pocket 
and held it up. 

“Tail!” cried Grushnitski hurriedly, like a m<an 
suddenly aroused by a friendly nudge. 

“Head,” I said. 

The coin spun in the air and fell, jingling. We 
all rushed towards it. 

“You are lucky,” I said to Grushnitski. “You 
are to fire first! But remember that if you do not 
kill me I shall not miss—I give you my word of 
honour.” 

He flushed up; he was ashamed to kill an un¬ 
armed man. I looked at him fixedly; for a moment 
it seemed to me that he would throw himself at my 
feet, imploring forgiveness; but how to confess so 
base a plot? . . . One expedient only was left to 
him—to fire in the air! I was convinced that he 
would fire in the air! One consideration alone 
might prevent him doing so—the thought that I 
would demand a second duel. 

“Now is the time!” the doctor whispered to me, 
plucking me by the sleeve. “If you do not tell 
them now that we know their intentions, all is lost. 
Look, he is loading already. ... If you will not 
say anything, I will.” . . . 

“On no account, doctor!” I answered, holding 
him back by the arm. “You will spoil everything. 
You have given your word not to interfere. . . . 
what does it matter to you? Perhaps I wish to be 
killed.” . . . 

He looked at me in astonishment. 


PRINCESS MARY 245 

“Oh, that is another thing! . . . Only do not 
complain of me in the other world.’’ . . . 

Meanwhile the captain had loaded his pistols 
and given one to Grushnitski, after whispering 
something to him with a smile; the other he gave 
to me. 

I placed myself in the corner of the ledge, plant¬ 
ing my left foot firmly against the rock and bend¬ 
ing slightly forward, so that, in case of a slight 
wound, I might not fall over backwards. 

Grushnitski placed himself opposite me and, at 
a given signal, began to raise his pistol. His knees 
shook. He aimed right at my forehead. . . . Un¬ 
utterable fury began to seethe within my breast. 

Suddenly he dropped the muzzle of the pistol 
and, pale as a sheet, turned to his second. 

“I cannot,” he said in a hollow voice. 

“Coward!” answered the captain. 

A shot rang out. The bullet grazed my knee. 
Involuntarily I took a few paces forward in order 
to get away from the edge as quickly as possible. 

“Well, my dear Grushnitski, it is a pity that you 
have missed!” said the captain. “Now it is your 
turn, take your stand! . Embrace me first: we shall 
not see each other again!” 

They embraced; the captain could scarcely re¬ 
frain from laughing. 

“Do not be afraid,” he added, glancing cunningly 
at Grushnitski; “everything in this world is non¬ 
sense. . . , Nature is a fool, fate a turkey-hen, 
and life a copeck!” 1 

After that tragic phrase, uttered with becoming 

1 Popular phrases, equivalent to: “Men are fools, fortune is 
blind, and life is not worth a straw.” 


246 A HERO OF OUR TIME 

gravity, he went back to his place. Ivan Ignate- 
vich, with tears, also embraced Grushnitski, and 
there the latter remained alone, facing me. Ever 
since then, I have been trying to explain to myself 
what sort of feeling it was that was boiling within 
my breast at that moment: it was the vexation of in¬ 
jured vanity, and contempt, and wrath engendered 
at the thought that the man now looking at me with 
such confidence, such quiet insolence, had, two min¬ 
utes before, been about to kill me like a dog, with¬ 
out exposing himself to the least danger, because 
had I been wounded a little more severely in the 
leg I should inevitably have fallen over the cliff. 

For a few moments I looked him fixedly in the 
face, trying to discern thereon even a slight trace 
of repentance. But it seemed to me that he was 
restraining a smile. 

“I should advise you to say a prayer before you 
die,” I said. 

“Do not worry about my soul any more than 
your own. One thing I beg of you: be quick about 
firing.” 

“And you do not recant your slander? You do 
not beg my forgiveness? . . . Bethink you well: has 
your conscience nothing to say to you?” 

“Mr. Pechorin!” exclaimed the captain of dra¬ 
goons. “Allow me to point out that you are not 
here to preach. . . . Let us lose no time, in case 
any one should ride through the gorge and we 
should be seen.” 

“Very well. Doctor, come here!” 

The doctor came up to me. Poor doctor! He 
was paler than Grushnitski had been ten minutes 
before. 

The words which followed I purposely pro- 


PRINCESS MARY 247 

nounced with a pause between each—loudly and 
distinctly, as the sentence of death is pronounced: 

“Doctor, these gentlemen have forgotten, in their 
hurry, no doubt, to put a bullet in my pistol. I beg 
you to load it afresh—and properly!” 

“Impossible!” cried the captain, “impossible! I 
loaded both pistols. Perhaps the bullet has rolled 
out of yours. . . . That is not my fault! And you 
have no right to load again. . . . No right at all. 
It is altogether against the rules, I shall not allow 
it” . . . 

“Very well!” I said to the captain. “If so, then 
you and I shall fight on the same terms.” . . . 

He came to a dead stop. 

Grushnitski stood with his head sunk on his 
breast, embarrassed and gloomy. 

“Let them be!” he said at length to the cap¬ 
tain, who was going to pull my pistol out of the 
doctor’s hands. “You know yourself that they are 
right.” . . 

In vain the captain made various signs to him. 
Grushnitski would not even look. 

Meanwhile the doctor had loaded the pistol and 
handed it to me. On seeing that, the captain spat 
and stamped his foot. 

“You are a fool, then, my friend,” he said: “a 
common fool! ... You trusted to me before, so 
you should obey me in everything now. . . . But 
serve you right! Die like a fly!” . . . 

He turned away, muttering as he went: 

“But all the same it is absolutely against the 
rules.” . 

“Grushnitski!” I said. “There is still time: 
recant your slander, and I will forgive you every¬ 
thing. You have not succeeded in making a fool 


248 A HERO OF OUR TIME 

of me; my self-esteem is satisfied. Remember— 
we were once friends.” . . . 

His face flamed, his eyes flashed. 

“Fire!” he answered. “I despise myself and 
I hate you. If you do not kill me I will lie in 
wait for you some night and cut your throat. 
There is not room on the earth for both of us.” . . , 

I fired. 

When the smoke had cleared away, Grushnitski 
was not to be seen on the ledge. Only a slender 
column of dust was still eddying at the edge of 
the precipice. 

There was a simultaneous cry from the rest. 

“Finita la commedia!” I said to the doctor. 

He made no answer, and turned away with hor¬ 
ror. 

I shrugged my shoulders and bowed to Grush- 
nitski’s seconds. 


Chapter XXI 

As I descended by the path, I observed Grush- 
nitski’s bloodstained corpse between the clefts of 
the rocks. Involuntarily, I closed my eyes. 

Untying my horse, I set off home at a walking 
pace. A stone lay upon my heart. To my eyes 
the sun seemed dim, its beams were powerless to 
warm me. 

I did not ride up to the village, but turned to 
the right, along the gorge. The sight of a man 
would have been painful to me: I wanted to be 
alone. Throwing down the bridle and letting my 
head fall on my breast, I rode for a long time, and 
at length found myself in a spot with which I was 
wholly unfamiliar. I turned my horse back and 
began to search for the road. The sun had al¬ 
ready set by the time I had ridden up to Kislo¬ 
vodsk—myself and my horse both utterly spent! 

My servant told me that Werner had called, 
and he handed me two notes: one from Werner, 
the other . . . from Vera. 

I opened the first; its contents were as follows: 

“Everything has been arranged as well as could 
be; the mutilated body has been brought in; and 
the bullet extracted from the breast. Everybody 
is convinced that the cause of death was an unfor¬ 
tunate accident; only the Commandant, who was 
doubtless aware of your quarrel, shook his head, 
but he said nothing. There are no proofs at all 
249 


250 A HERO OF OUR TIME 

against you, and you may sleep in peace ... if you 
can. . . . Farewell!” . . . 

For a long time I could not make up my mind 
to open the second note. . . . What could it be that 
she was writing to me? . . . My soul was agitated 
by a painful foreboding. 

Here it is, that letter, each word of which is 
indelibly engraved upon my memory: 

“I am writing to you in the full assurance that 
we shall never see each other again. A few years 
ago on parting with you I thought the same. 
However, it has been Heaven’s will to try me a 
second time: I have not been able to endure the 
trial, my frail heart has again submitted to the 
well-known voice. ... You will not despise me 
for that—will you? This letter will be at once a 
farewell and a confession: I am obliged to tell 
you everything that has been treasured up in my 
heart since it began to love you. I will not accuse 
you—you have acted towards me as any other man 
would have acted; you have loved me as a chattel, 
as a source of joys, disquietudes and griefs, inter¬ 
changing one with the other, without which life 
would be dull and monotonous. I have under¬ 
stood all that from the first. . . . But you were 
unhappy, and I have sacrificed myself, hoping that, 
some time, you would appreciate my sacrifice, that 
some time you would understand my deep tender¬ 
ness, unfettered by any conditions. A long time 
has elapsed since then: I have fathomed all the 
secrets of your soul . . . and I have convinced 
myself that my hope was vain. It has been a bit¬ 
ter blow to me! But my love has been grafted 
with my soul; it has grown dark, but has not been 
extinguished. 




PRINCESS MARY 251 

“We are parting for ever; yet you may be sure 
that I shall never love another. Upon you my 
soul has exhausted all its treasures, its tears, its 
hopes. She who has once loved you cannot look 
without a certain disdain upon other men, not be¬ 
cause you have been better than they, oh, no! but 
in your nature there is something peculiar—be¬ 
longing to you alone, something proud and myste¬ 
rious; in your voice, whatever the words spoken, 
there is an invincible power. No one can so con¬ 
stantly wish to be loved, in no one is wickedness 
ever so attractive, no one’s glance promises so 
much bliss, no one can better make use of his ad¬ 
vantages, and no one can be so truly unhappy as 
you, because no one endeavours so earnestly to con¬ 
vince himself of the contrary. 

“Now I must explain the cause of my hurried 
departure; it wdll seem of little importance to you, 
because it concerns me alone. 

“This morning my husband came in and told me 
about your quarrel with Grushnitski. Evidently 
I changed countenance greatly, because he looked 
me in the face long and intently. I almost fainted 
at the thought that you had to fight a duel today, 
and that I was the cause of it; it seemed to me 
that I should go mad. . . . But now, when I am 
able to reason, I am sure that you remain alive: 
it is impossible that you should die, and I not w T ith 
you—impossible! My husband walked about the 
room for a long time. I do not know what he said 
to me, I do not remember what I answered. . . . 
Most likely I told him that I loved you. ... I 
only remember that, at the end of our conversa¬ 
tion, he insulted me with a dreadful word and left 
the room. I heard him ordering the carriage. . . . 


252 A HERO OF OUR TIME 

I have been sitting at the window three hours now, 
awaiting your return. . . . But you are alive, you 
cannot have died! . . . The carriage is almost 
ready. . . . Good-bye, good-bye! ... I have per¬ 
ished—but what matter? If I could be sure that 
you will always remember me—I no longer say 
love —no, only remember. . . . Good-bye, they 
are coming! ... I must hide this letter. 

“You do not love Mary, do you? You will not 
marry her? Listen, you must offer me that sacri¬ 
fice. I have lost everything in the world for 
you” . . . 

Like a madman I sprang on to the steps, jumped 
on my Circassian horse which was being led about 
the courtyard, and set off at a full gallop along the 
road to Pyatigorsk. Unsparingly I urged on the 
jaded horse, which, snorting and all in a foam, 
carried me swiftly along the rocky road. 

The sun had already disappeared behind a black 
cloud, which had been resting on the ridge of the 
western mountains; the gorge grew dark and damp. 
The Podkumok, forcing its way over the rocks, 
roared with a hollow and monotonous sound. I 
galloped on, choking with impatience. The idea 
of not finding Vera in Pyatigorsk struck my heart 
like a hammer. For one minute, again to see her 
for one minute, to say farewell, to press her 
hand. . . . I prayed, cursed, wept, laughed. . . . 
No, nothing could express my anxiety, my de¬ 
spair! . . . Now that it seemed possible that I 
might be about to lose her for ever, Vera became 
dearer to me than aught in the world—dearer than 
life, honour, happiness! God knows what strange, 
what mad plans swarmed in my head. . . . Mean¬ 
while I still galloped, urging on my horse without 


PRINCESS MARY 253 

pity. And, now, I began to notice that he was 
breathing more heavily; he had already stumbled 
once or twice on level ground. ... I was five 
versts from Essentuki—a Cossack village where I 
could change horses. 

All would have been saved had my horse been 
able to hold out for another ten minutes. But 
suddenly, in lifting himself out of a little gulley 
where the road emerges from the mountains at a 
sharp turn, he fell to the ground. I jumped down 
promptly, I tried to lift him up, I tugged at his 
bridle—in vain. A scarcely audible moan burst 
through his clenched teeth; in a few moments he 
expired. I was left on the steppe, alone; I had 
lost my last hope. I endeavoured to walk—my 
legs sank under me; exhausted by the anxieties of 
the day and by sleeplessness, I fell upon the wet 
grass and burst out crying like a child. 

For a long time I lay motionless and wept bit¬ 
terly, without attempting to restrain my tears and 
sobs. I thought my breast would burst. All my 
firmness, all my coolness, disappeared like smoke; 
my soul grew powerless, my reason silent, and, if 
any one had seen me at that moment, he would 
have turned aside with contempt. 

When the night-dew and the mountain breeze 
had cooled my burning brow, and my thoughts had 
resumed their usual course, I realized that to pur¬ 
sue my perished happiness would be unavailing 
and unreasonable. What more did I want?—To 
see her?—Why? Was not all over between us? 
A single, bitter, farewell kiss would not. have en¬ 
riched my recollections, and, after it, parting would 
only have been more difficult for us. 

Still, I am pleased that I can weep. Perhaps, 


254 A HERO OF OUR TIME 

however, the cause of that was my shattered nerves, 
a night passed without sleep, two minutes opposite 
the muzzle of a pistol, and an empty stomach. 

It is all for the best. That new suffering created 
within me a fortunate diversion—to speak in mili¬ 
tary style. To weep is healthy, and then, no 
doubt, if I had not ridden as I did and had not 
been obliged to walk fifteen versts on my way back, 
sleep would not have closed my eyes on that night 
either. 

I returned to Kislovodsk at five o’clock in the 
morning, threw myself on my bed, and slept the 
sleep of Napoleon after Waterloo. 

By the time I awoke it was dark outside. I sat 
by the open window, with my jacket unbuttoned— 
and the mountain breeze cooled my breast, still 
troubled by the heavy sleep of weariness. In the 
distance beyond the river, through the tops of the 
thick lime trees which overshadowed it, lights were 
glancing in the fortress and the village. Close at 
hand all was calm. It was dark in Princess Ligov- 
ski’s house. 

The doctor entered; his brows were knit; con¬ 
trary to custom, he did not offer me his hand. 

“Where have you come from, doctor?” 

“From Princess Ligovski’s; her daughter is ill 
—nervous exhaustion. . . . That is not the point, 
though. This is what I have come to tell you: the 
authorities are suspicious, and, although it is im¬ 
possible to prove anything positively, I should, all 
the same, advise you to be cautious. Princess 
Ligovski told me today that she knew that you 
fought a duel on her daughter’s account. That 
little old man—what’s his name?—has told her 
everything. He was a witness of your quarrel 


PRINCESS MARY 255 

with Grushnitski in the restaurant. I have come 
to warn you. Good-bye. Maybe we shall not 
meet again: you will be banished somewhere.” 

He stopped on the threshold; he would gladly 
have pressed my hand . . . and, had I shown the 
slightest desire to embrace him, he would have 
thrown himself upon my neck; but I remained cold 
as a rock—and he left the room. 

That is just like men! They are all the same: 
they know beforehand all the bad points of an 
act, they help, they advise, they even encourage it, 
seeing the impossibility of any other expedient— 
and then they wash their hands of the whole af¬ 
fair and turn away with indignation from him who 
has the courage to take the whole burden of re¬ 
sponsibility upon himself. They are all like that, 
even the best-natured, the wisest. . . . 


Chapter XXII 

Next morning, having received orders from the 
supreme authority to betake myself to the N—— 
Fortress, I called upon Princess Ligovski to say 
good-bye. 

She was surprised when, in answer to her ques¬ 
tion, whether I had not anything of special im¬ 
portance to tell her, I said I had come to wish her 
good-bye, and so on. 

“But I must have a very serious talk with you.” 

I sat down in silence. 

It was clear that she did not know how to be¬ 
gin; her face grew livid, she tapped the table with 
her plump fingers; at length, in a broken voice, she 
said: 

“Listen, Monsieur Pechorin, I think that you 
are a gentleman.” 

I bowed. 

“Nay, I am sure of it,” she continued, “al¬ 
though your behaviour is somewhat equivocal, but 
you may have reasons which I do not know; and 
you must now confide them to me. You have pro¬ 
tected my daughter from slander, you have fought 
a duel on her behalf—consequently you have risked 
your life. . . . Do not answer. I know that you 
will not acknowledge it because Grushnitski has 
been killed”—she crossed herself. “God forgive 
him—and you too, I hope . . . That does not 
concern me. ... I dare not condemn you because 
my daughter, although innocently, has been the 


PRINCESS MARY, 257 

cause. She has told me everything . . . every¬ 
thing, I think. You have declared your love for 
her. . . . She has admitted hers to you.”—Here 
Princess Ligovski sighed heavily.—“But she is ill, 
and I am certain that it is no simple illness! Se¬ 
cret grief is killing her; she will not confess, but I 
am convinced that you are the cause of it. . . . 
Listen: you think, perhaps, that I am looking for 
rank or immense wealth—be undeceived, my daugh¬ 
ter’s happiness is my sole desire. Your present 
position is unenviable, but it may be bettered: you 
have means; my daughter loves you; she has been 
brought up in such a way that she will make her 
husband a happy man. I am wealthy, she is my 
only child. . . . Tell me, what is keeping you 
back? ... You see, I ought not to be saying all 
this to you, but I rely upon your heart, upon your 
honour—remember she is my only daughter . . . 
my only one” . . . 

She burst into tears. 

“Princess,” I said, “it is impossible for me to 
answer you; allow me to speak to your daughter, 
alone.” ... 

“Never!” she exclaimed, rising from her chair 
in violent agitation. 

“As you wish,” I answered, preparing to go 
away. 

She fell into thought, made a sign to me with 
her hand that I should wait a little, and left the 
room. 

Five minutes passed. My heart was beating vio¬ 
lently, but my thoughts were tranquil, my head 
cool. However assiduously I sought in my breast 
for even a spark of love for the charming Mary, 
my efforts were of no avail! 


258 A HERO OF OUR TIME 

Then the door opened, and she entered. Heav¬ 
ens ! How she had changed since I had last seen 
her—and that but a short time ago! 

When she reached the middle of the room, she 
staggered. I jumped up, gave her my arm, and 
led her to a chair. 

I stood facing her. We remained silent for a 
long time; her large eyes, full of unutterable grief, 
seemed to be searching in mine for something 
resembling hope; her wan lips vainly endeavoured 
to smile; her tender hands, which were folded upon 
her knees, were so thin and transparent that I 
pitied her. 

“Princess,” I said, “you know that I have been 
making fun of you? . . . You must despise me.” 

A sickly flush suffused her cheeks. 

“Consequently,” I continued, “you cannot love 
me. . . . 

She turned her head away, leaned her elbows 
on the table, covered her eyes with her hand, and 
it seemed to me that she was on the point of 
tears. 

“Oh, God!” she said, almost inaudibly. 

The situation was growing intolerable. Another 
minute—and I should have fallen at her feet. 

“So you see, yourself,” I said in as firm a voice 
as I could command, and with a forced smile, 
“you see, yourself, that I cannot marry you. Even 
if you wished it now, you would soon repent. My 
conversation with your mother has compelled me to 
explain myself to you so frankly and so brutally. I 
hope that she is under a delusion: it will be easy 
for you to undeceive her. You see, I am playing a 
most pitiful and ugly role in your eyes, and I even 


PRINCESS MARY 259 

admit it—that is the utmost I can do for your sake. 
However bad an opinion you may entertain of me, 
I submit to it. . . . You see that I am base in your 
sight, am I not? . . . Is it not true that, even if 
you have loved me, you would despise me from 
this moment?” . . . 

She turned round to me. She was pale as 
marble, but her eyes were sparkling wondrously. 

“I hate you.” . . . she said. 

I thanked her, bowed respectfully, and left the 
room. 

An hour afterwards a postal express was bearing 
me rapidly from Kislovodsk. A few versts from 
Essentuki I recognized near the roadway the body 
of my spirited horse. The saddle had been taken 
off, no doubt by a passing Cossack, and, in its place, 
two ravens were sitting on the horse’s back. I 
sighed and turned away. . . . 

And now, here in this wearisome fortress, I 
often ask myself, as rny thoughts wander back to the 
past: why did I not wish to tread that way, thrown 
open by destiny, where soft joys and ease of soul 
were awaiting me? . . . No, I could never have 
become habituated to such a fate! I am like a 
sailor born and bred on the deck of a pirate brig: 
his soul has grown accustomed to storms and bat¬ 
tles; but, once let him be cast upon the shore, 
and he chafes, he pines away, however invitingly 
the shady groves allure, however brightly shines 
the peaceful sun. The livelong day he paces the 
sandy shore, hearkens to the monotonous murmur 
of the onrushing waves, and gazes into the misty 
distance: lo! yonder, upon the pale line dividing 
the blue deep from the grey clouds, is there not 


260 A HERO OF OUR TIME 

glancing the longed-for sail, at first like the wing 
of a seagull, but little by little severing itself from 
the foam of the billows and, with even course, 
drawing nigh to the desert harbour? 


APPENDIX 

PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION 
(By the Author) 











Appendix 

The preface to a book serves the double purpose 
of prologue and epilogue. It affords the author an 
opportunity of explaining the object of the work, 
or of vindicating himself and replying to his critics. 
As a rule, however, the reader is concerned neither 
with the moral purpose of the book nor with the 
attacks of the Reviewers, and so the preface re¬ 
mains unread. Nevertheless, this is a pity, espe¬ 
cially with us Russians ! The public of this country 
is so youthful, not to say simple-minded, that it 
cannot understand the meaning of a fable unless 
the moral is set forth at the end. Unable to see 
a joke, insensible to irony, it has, in a word, been 
badly brought up. It has not yet learned that in 
a decent book, as in decent society, open invective 
can have no place; that our present-day civilization 
has invented a keener weapon, none the less deadly 
for being almost invisible, which, under the cloak of 
flattery, strikes with pure and irresistible effect. 
The Russian public is like a simple-minded person 
from the country who, chancing to overhear a con¬ 
versation between two diplomatists belonging to 
hostile courts, comes away with the conviction that 
each of them has been deceiving his Government in 
the interest of a most affectionate private friend¬ 
ship. 

The unfortunate effects of an over-literal accep¬ 
tation of words by certain readers and even Re¬ 
viewers have recently been manifested in regard to 
263 


264 APPENDIX 

the present book. Many of its readers have been 
dreadfully, and in all seriousness, shocked to find 
such an immoral man as Pechorin set before them 
as an example. Others have observed, with much 
acumen, that the author has painted his own por¬ 
trait and those of his acquaintances! . . . What 
a stale and wretched jest! But Russia, it appears, 
has been constituted in such a way that absurdities 
of this kind will never be eradicated. It is doubt¬ 
ful whether, in this country, the most ethereal of 
fairy-tales would escape the reproach of attempting 
offensive personalities. 

Pechorin, gentlemen, is in fact a portrait, but 
not of one man only: he is a composite portrait, 
made up of all the vices which flourish, fullgrown, 
amongst the present generation. You will tell me, 
as you have told me before, that no man can be so 
bad as this; and my reply will be: “If you believe 
that such persons as the villains of tragedy and ro¬ 
mance could exist in real life, why can you not be¬ 
lieve in the reality of Pechorin? If you admire 
fictions much more terrible and monstrous, why is it 
that this character, even if regarded merely as a 
creature of the imagination, cannot obtain quarter 
at your hands? Is it not because there is more 
truth in it than may be altogether palatable to 
you?” 

You will say that the cause of morality gains 
nothing by this book. I beg your pardon. People 
have been surfeited with sweetmeats and their di¬ 
gestion has been ruined: bitter medicines, sharp 
truths, are therefore necessary. This must not, 
however, be taken to mean that the author has ever 
proudly dreamed of becoming a reformer of human 
vices. Heaven keep him from such impertinence! 


APPENDIX 265 

He has simply found it entertaining to depict a 
man, such as he considers to be typical of the pres¬ 
ent day and such as he has often met in real life 
—too often, indeed, unfortunately both for the 
author himself and for you. Suffice it that the dis¬ 
ease has been pointed out: how it is to be cured— 
God alone knows! 
















* 




i 


TARAS BULBA by Nikolay Gogol 

An historical tale of the Cossacks, their life in the republic 
“beyond the rapids” and the stirring adventures of Taras 
Bulba, told by the great Russian writer. no. i 

PETER JAMESON by Gilbert Frankau 

A modern romance which centers around the married life of 
the average man and woman. “It contains some of the most 
vivid portraits of ‘average people,’ yet given to the world.” 
—Detroit News. N0 * 2 

JAVA HEAD by Joseph Hergesheimer 

A novel of the American merchant marine at the beginning of 
the great clipper ship era—a story of choleric ship masters, 
charming girls and an aristocratic Manchu woman. no. 3 

HUNGER by Knut Hamsun 

The first of Hamsun’s works to be presented by Mr. Knopf— 
a remarkable autobiographical novel giving an insight into the 
past life and the consciousness of this great master. “This very 
unusual and notable book . . . The product of a remarkable 
imagination, so real it is, so vivid, so moving, so compelling in 
its claim upon the reader’s emotions and sympathies .”—New 
York Times. N0, 4 

ANDALUSIA by Somerset Maugham 

A book of sketches and impressions by the author of The 
Moon and Sixpence. N0 * 5 

THE GREEN GODDESS by William Archer 

George Arliss’s great theatrical success; a thrilling play of 
adventure in India. N0 * 6 

PREJUDICES: first series by H. L. Mencken 

A collection of penetrating critical essays in the best Mencken 
manner. Fresh and lively views of W. D. Howells, H. G. 
Wells, Professor Veblen, George Ade, and many others by “the 
first American critic except Poe .”—The Witness (london). NO. 7 

CAESAR OR NOTHING by Pio Baroja 

The story of Caesar Moncada, a brilliantly clever young 
Spaniard, who sets out to reform his country. “The most im¬ 
portant translation that has come out of Spain in our time in 
the field of fiction and it will be remembered as epochal.” 
—John Garrett Underhill. no* 8 




LONDON RIVER by H. M. Tomlinson 

Delightful essays of the foreshore of London by the author of 
Old Junk. “A book of prose, written with the pen of a poet. 
It is to be read as a work of art, slowly with delight.” 
—London Times. NO. 9 

THE POPULAR THEATRE 
by George Jean Nathan 

A book dealing critically and comprehensively with the 
modern popular theatre by “one of the wittiest and soundest 
of modern critics.”— Le Temps (paris). no. 10 

170 CHINESE POEMS Translated by Arthur Waley 

Amy Lowell says: “No better translations have so far ap¬ 
peared of Chinese poetry. He has given the real feeling of 
its clarity, its suggestion, its perfect humanity.” no. n 

THE ROOM by G. B. Stern 

Women today are losing their capacity for self-deception 
faster than men. This is the theme of “a very rich and jolly 
book. It shows Miss Stern’s power of creating real people at 
its very best.”— Rebecca West. no. 12 

THE ANTICHRIST by F. W. Nietzsche 

Translated from the German with an introduction by H. L. 
Mencken. 

The best work of the brilliant iconoclast, with an attempt 
to reflect in English the extraordinary pungent and dramatic 
style of the original. It is the most devastating criticism of 
revealed religion ever written. no. 13 

AN ADOPTED HUSBAND by Futabatei 

Probably the first modern Japanese novel to appear in 
English, this story, which unfolds the lives of five characters, 
gives a most interesting picture of contemporary life in a 
Japanese city. N o. I+ 

CHELKASH and other stories by Maxim Gorky 

“Gorky is probably better known in this country than any 
other Russian short-story writer. This volume contains a 
representative collection of his stories—perhaps the best of 
his work.”— The New York Times. no. 15 

THE STAG’S HORNBOOK 
Edited by John McClure 

This book contains over 500 selections representing the best 
convivial man’s verse in our language. As an anthology it is 
unique. There is no end of fun in it. N0# 


VT'T'T' 


t * T-y 











( 


THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A SUPER-TRAMP 
by William H. Davies 

With a preface by G. Bernard Shaw 
“The extraordinary autobiography of a most ordinary man; 
a man who, in turn has lived the life of a hobo, day laborer, 
literary artist and successful poet, all within thirty-five years.” 
—The Chicago Daily News. no. 17 

VENTURES IN COMMON SENSE by E. W. Howe 

With an introduction by H. L. Mencken 
The opinion of all America is summed up here, with sagac¬ 
ity and humor, on subjects ranging from business to war and 
from politics to love. no. 18 

THE LITTLE ANGEL and other stories 
by Leonid Andreyev 

When this volume appeared in 1915, Andreyev was known 
to Western readers only by his remarkable plays. It proved 
to be more popular than most of his work and has passed 
through many editions. no. 19 

A BOOK OF BURLESQUES by H. L. Mencken 

On a different plane from his more serious discussions, these 
satires and extravagances make the same war upon hypocrisy, 
affectation and philistinism. There are few manifestations of 
American sentimentality that are not punctured with sure and 
incisive stroke in this collection. April, 1924. NO. 20 

RALPH HERNE by W. H. Hudson 

This is the first popular priced edition of this early novel 
by W. H. Hudson which was published posthumously last year 
in a limited edition of .950 copies, almost completely sold out 
at once. May I 9 2 4 > no. 21 

A HERO OF OUR TIME by M. Y. Lermontov 

This striking work by the Russian author of the early nine¬ 
teenth century known as the successor to Pushkin is set in the 
magnificent scenery and free life of the Caucasus. It is called 
the first Russian psychological novel. June 1924., no. 22 

In preparation for future issue'. The Soul of a Child, by 
Edwin Bjorkman ; Three Tales, by Gustave Flaubert ; The So- 
Called Human Race, by Bert Leston Taylor ; The Blind Bow- 
Boy, by Carl Van Vechten\ Youth and the Bright Medusa, by 
Willa Cother ; Cytherea, by Joseph Hergesheimer. 

ALFRED • A • KNOPF 

730 FIFTH AVENUE NEW YORK 


•▼■frrv 














* ! 1 * 


v 


I * * 



V \ S< 

"^ S Mr W 

■f ? '^A © : . * * ^y ^ t :^kiif* ~ >i 

<rj. o 4v /V V s ^ HifoxJ- * «y vju ° 

m **;V* >Vr' c ** V*• \o*y^'%o ’ 

.\4Sto^. % 0 ^' :0?A *os 

’/islS 5 . 0 #■ 

‘ sP 


> 0 V 0r *V ^ ' '' : ^'J ^°* ^ o 

> -y®r? w »isi *, \/ ^ 



°° V ^ 

,W, „ v % ^wH^'s y y \. % 

^A ^ o » * LlA j* y O 0 ,\ S *-« 

SBL_ rv- <■ ^ * V\ . fO^c. v<> 

C° *jefffch % °0 ^ **, ^ 

K ^ ’ '^> - <y -% J* '^Sxv\\l?5L «/> '<<6 

Ov 

* 




.* aJ 
* v* 

V> 


^ ^ 


% * 3 -< 0, 0 ^ 0 „, . o.V'n •' 

' % / v^UA V 

* r '-b4> :p|; 0 

- v y? +**($$? s y ^ -> 

* 


\h ° v * / ^Sa'^ * 'V Y» ^ "-‘Kl^y * <■ 

-.,°V° ” ’•■‘V s c oNG, \‘' j • • % >° 
^ ,'xv o * *r * 

ffe: V .°4S&« ^ :. 

six W . O -rf . rv'.^^t^'-'V-y o AO. o s 



> V * 



_ _ _, , , *y ^y ^ ./> 

VSJ ‘ 0 • r\J Ju t* rtV C#. ♦. 

r ° s ° ^° x A O V» i n d s « «v > V ^ o 

*0 ^ u * y v> . ^ r 1 . K o 

^ fMiwVMVW 

' \ ■jb&j / V'W' ^ 

<c K 

vo H * 

30 ^ - 

y *y o n v- ^ 

,M ^^^\* OKO >V .. 

<f^' » 0$k \ %<& r $i§$r° 

^..Ifft/ -liff 




v> *n * 
























A X 





\ VV o 

ft * 

,. v ;: X a «• 1 l- c ; v 

•W *m 4 >; W ° 4 Sk; -W 

.* v' c n »* o ^ A <A < 

# v^''r"\ ,0 ' , °V a' * »/V ,M * ->V * • » 

^ time* X £' :M/\** % <# * 

V O r V v> - ? YV O 

l JV o * A S y X> ~1 ^v!(ii^ ° - <*? ^JV o 

^ ■ - 4* X°> 

O* y n .-f S. *f, c s -G O- y „ 

** 'Hi °'”' A S ,o» = , '<^, *"’ o^ »* LI ' , */ V 0 . 

. O .♦ teftTfcz? f 

Ao. « ipyi^ © 

■ v>- ■' s^'y ^-jz^ x • • • •> iP 
/ #: W -m't V- 

^ ‘.W.* -V A o‘&S,‘ 4^ % , 

^-**o . A* 0 * <!> *< 

A' G°* C * 

V* / ^ ^ 


' y o*i 


O 

o 
z 

« - 

urfX'X- l "<Xo 

^ G * OzrCfT/X? f 

■A&l * *<$ <L K X 

« t» X> 

_$A « ^ O <r k^fSW * 

^ * 4- C„ V""^A _p ' \ 

*V,s”A * # - o ‘>,*<*V■ 

& \ SXX%% % Jy •? 

v » r tT v 5 * W9&m \ V*v * 

X o c ^X * ° .X X o 

-v, «, s <Cy Ol 





vt. w:v *’a ■' X Vvva' ip' 

lV°o o°y 

y; W .*• 




> A.O. 

A, Z 1 

rS'' ^ * C-v J> * v vV ^' *’ 

A° y « f , ^ * V^ V « * °A> *S KO° A 

jZ MMi ZJfei'W': 

'■ J '‘ , '* ? A^'Vl t 3fA^A ‘ 




Av 




























































































































































































